4pm chip shop chips

Six spotless trainers
zigzagging in time
to the music of chitchat,
one wooden fork between three,
vinegar-soaked paper
flapping like gossiping lips
and oversized blazers.
Confusion. Too many fingers
get tangled. The bag of chips
drops as fast as jaws
to the floor. Silence.
The giggling points to a
future of soft shoulders
relaxing into a life
of not enough time.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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