Grab a hold of your chest skin tight enough
to remove it without causing pain. Peel it off
and show the youngest eyes in the universe
that what lies beneath is every known colour,
the chance to wake up feeling useful, a bowl
of Weetabix and songs about excavators,
a train track built from cherry tomatoes and cheese,
a pair of boots dirtied with mud from countries
and towns and planets that refuse to be found,
juggling balls, uncut hair, clashing outfits,
the space between expectations and a terrible
imitation of a lion, an empty calendar, a yellow cap,
the urge to play the drums or paint a goat
or count butterflies or fly to the ocean
and the flair to sit up and fail.

© Carl Burkitt 2022