We sit like we used to,
a cup of tea telling my hands
to wake up as soon as they can,
backside on a hard-backed stool,
bones crumbling like over-cooked toast,
eyes remembering Saturday breakfast
fried eggs at lunchtime, you
dancing to the sound of the bin men,
poking a finger into a bowl of Weetabix,
holding a spoon in the air
like you invented it.

© Carl Burkitt 2022