You’ve got the chat of a taxi driver.
Roundabout freckles dotted
up the A-roads of your arms.
Your forehead fills a rear view mirror
like conversation starters
in an A-Z Map of putting people
at ease. I could sit behind you
anywhere, counting the times
you ask me an open question,
about the way machines were built,
mispronounce the names of footballers.
© Carl Burkitt 2022