The bloke
in the wardrobe door
is flat and out of ideas.
The hair on his head
has had as much death
as it has had life and
there’s a red mark growing
under his eye. He’ll pretend
it was from a punch
to make him sound exciting.
He’ll tell no one about
the way he cannot
stomach shifts in plans
as easily as before;
when he wasn’t just the bloke
in the wardrobe door.

© Carl Burkitt 2021