He’s picking blackberries
from the bush behind the train platform.
His t-shirt is park-in-the-sunshine green.
His arms are tongues.
The pockets of his orange shorts
are stuffed like hamster cheeks.
I give him the kind of silent nod
a grown up gives to a grown up
they don’t know when they want
to let them know everything is fine.
He sticks up a juice covered thumb.
© Carl Burkitt 2021