He’s playing with a yo-yo, unironically. The string
stretches down past his unbrushed hair
to the three stripes on his Adidas trainers
stood in an appropriately wonky angle.
My word, he’s good at the yo-yo. His mates
don’t even acknowledge it anymore,
it’s like he’s got another limb.
None of them are asking how long
it’s taken him to reach this level. They’re not
shouting trick requests like Around the World
or Walk the Dog. He whistles before using
his free hand to carry a latte to his lips. His friends
talk about homework and biscuits
because they think magic stopped existing.

© Carl Burkitt 2022