I roll up towels now,
like sausages I don’t eat.
I stack coasters
like fading pound coins
on a soggy bar runner.
I look in the mirror after eating.
I look left and right again and again,
over-pack for weekends,
text when I arrive safely.
There is a pair of socks
in my drawer greyer than
Eeyore’s morning porridge
with holes on the heels.
I still wear them. It’s nice
to feel where my feet are going.

© Carl Burkitt 2022