It’s not a service station it’s a Gloucester farm shop

It’s not a pit stop
it’s a garage carved into a hill.
It’s not a Cornish pasty
it’s pastry covering sunshine.
It’s not a toilet break
it’s knees remembering they are alive.
It’s not a bunch of energy drinks
it’s liquid disappearance into oneself.
It’s not a B and B, it’s a bunch of rooms
tethered by a special occasion.
It’s not nighttime, it’s daytime
covered in the darkness of nighttime
and the fear of being forgotten
by the collection of skin
that pushed a toy train across a train track
while we pretended we needed a weekend
away from you.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

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