His T-shirt doesn’t match his face.
He is also part full of cold chips and ketchup,
the disappointment of seagulls,
the thrill of blue candy floss,
successfully skimmed stones,
buckets of sadness, spades of electricity,
curiosity of cliff edges, the embarrassment
of public toilet tap water on light grey shorts,
the sound of crabs claws clapping,
the joy of a weekend with no plans,
the dread of a weekend with no plans,
the introduction to sea air, nervousness
over the gaps between old pier floorboards,
upside down ice cream rage. He is part full
of every single thing he has ever seen,
smelt, and felt trying to tear through his skin.

© Carl Burkitt 2022