He’s sitting on a chair made from little
imagination (four legs, hard back, no cushion)
attempting to put a Christmas playlist together.
He cannot remember his own opinions. What
makes his feet tap? What makes his fingers smile?
What makes his hair pick him up like the claw
of a Weston-super-Mare arcade toy grabber
and drop him in a living room with bacon
for wallpaper, wrapping paper for carpet,
pink cheeks from laughter and closed windows?
He’s sitting on a chair made from an ache
to put a Christmas playlist together.

© Carl Burkitt 2022