A funeral wake has walked into the pub,
50 or so legs in black Tuesday trousers
march from the front door to the immediate family
to the bar to an empty chair. I make myself
smaller in the corner, reply to small talk
with the staff about their range of chutneys.
I don’t think scotch bonnet jam existed
when you do. I order a pot and wish
it packed a stronger punch.
© Carl Burkitt 2022