We get in the car
like it’s a perfectly natural thing,
metal carrying brains and blood
past fields of cows eating grass.
There’s a horse, thick-legged
and ready to run in its steel shoes,
like it’s a perfectly natural thing.
Tarmac is no place to land.
We dance on cigarette machines,
fall asleep in public toilets.
We get jobs, move town, get hobbies.
We plant trees and write poems,
like it’s a perfectly natural thing.

© Carl Burkitt 2022