There’s a fluorescent green running coat
in a drawer with wheels under my bed.
I slide it on when my feet need to run
a day into a night. It was given
to me by cremated hands and fits
like a glove I never wanted to wear.
My son shouts Green coat when it’s on,
I look like the lime in secret a gin and tonic.
I hate it. I wish it was still in Newcastle
jogging slower than you would imagine
next to a Labrador who will never know
what happened. I still wear it though,
and I always will, because without death
I would never remember to throw my body
into an afternoon.

© Carl Burkitt 2022