He’s up there, the space bastard,
slurping his tea, telling stars to run faster,
picking his nose and rubbing his finger
across the universe. I hear him at night
revving the engine of his 4×4,
farting in a supermarket freezer
and shutting the door to keep the smell in
for the customer behind him to find.
He’s up there, the space bastard,
writing an apology to his dog,
playing Shirley Bassey, nodding
every time his cutlery gets used.

© Carl Burkitt 2022