It’s getting dark and I look at the jam jar
of cashew nuts in my flat roasting
on your hob after school. You teach me
how to eat pomegranates with toothpicks.
You ask my Mum if you can have egg
and chips with us and we see how far
the inside of a football can inflate
with a foot pump; my Dad isn’t the one
who works in health and safety.
We draw chalk tennis courts on the road.
We cannot bounce on a pogo stick.
The bus driver falls over again
while we record a radio show sat
on your bed. I feel polyps falling off
my skin like stardust.

© Carl Burkitt 2021