They are chugging orange Lucozade Sports,
spitting on the path, taking selfies of their hair.
They are peacocks. They are tap dancers.
They are magicians at a party we are not invited to.
I’ve never seen so many knees in January.
Half of their ears have wireless headphones plugged in.
Their smiles are goalie glove wide.
Their sky blue tops hold them in hope
like a skydiver clutching their parachute straps.
© Carl Burkitt 2022