the feeling of chocolate bones in summer,
a bacon scented umbrella, a bridal
procession at a funeral. Sticky notes
cling to the desk with teeth
covered in scribbles not worth biting.
When the world ends tomorrow
my head will not be asked for help,
so I step outside sometimes,
put gloves on my fingers to stop splinters,
stand fence panels upright,
hold a hammer like a giant pen,
give my back an opportunity to break.
© Carl Burkitt 2022