I like looking at miniature packets
of far too expensive for what they are
sweets in garden centres, you know,
like pear drops or fudge,
and imagining being the kind of person
who buys them for other people on a whim.
I just grabbed your Mum some humbugs,
I might say. Or, Dark chocolate gingers?
Darren would love those, let’s get some.
I see myself fishing them out of my backpack
later that day while talking about hydrangeas.
I’ll hand them over and shrug my shoulders
in a sort of, Oh, it’s nothing kind of way.
I don’t even mention the price.
© Carl Burkitt 2022