People are sat around the dinner table,
their plates stained with gravy
and scraps of veg from the final helping
they knew deep down they didn’t need.
They’ve pulled their Christmas Crackers
and are reading daft jokes,
placing primary coloured hats
on their heads, playing with their toy prizes.
I’m with them on a chair by the internal
garage door holding on to my prize:
not a jumping plastic frog, metal puzzle,
miniature tweezers, or giant paper clip,
but a £20 British Home Stores voucher.
No one believes me, and no one will ever
believe me. I bought some new grey slippers.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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