The kitchen was all that existed –
a dead island with a dead breakfast island
in the middle of it. The floor tiles were
a forgotten chessboard, the oven
a 6th November morning bonfire. We climbed
in through the thinning entrance
like pennies into a vending machine,
the mossy windows refused to show
the snack of us. My pint glass was
a yellow moustache, glued to lips
yet to learn how to talk about weather.
The chairs were ghosts – shot horses,
lying on their sides. The bottle of Lambrini
misread the tone of why we were there
and sang shanties until the night gave up.
© Carl Burkitt 2022