The work lot are filing in

The sun is not ready yet.
They hold coffees
bigger than their hands
with names I’ll never know.
Their unbranded gillets
look tiny from up here.
The group of four are laughing
at an in-joke I imagine.
I bet the heels
of their brown or black loafers
sound like nattering
on the iced tarmac.
I turn the kitchen tap on
like a water cooler.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

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