The boys look like Jack Grealish,
all calves and curtains. They are
standing around the café toilets laughing,
showing each other videos of people
falling over on their phones. An older man
looks my way and rolls his eyes, folds
his newspaper and slips it under his armpit
to stomp his way toward the door
like a cartoon of older man in a huff.
The squad of Jack Grealishes move aside
and apologise. One of them opens the door.
The old man doesn’t say thank you.

© Carl Burkitt 2022