Jaw like a Pukka pie, scampi eyes,
crispy battered cod hair. He is easily
confusable with the drinks fridge.
A Tuesday cuboid. Refreshing to see.
He’s left his armour at home. His sculpted chest
is tightly wrapped in a red, white and blue
hoody with a star in the middle. His jeans
are dappled in salt stains. I can count four
biceps per arm. Vinegar? What do you think?
He is ready to tear off the rough of his mouth,
peer inside his skull and count the fires
he’s put out today.
© Carl Burkitt 2022