Flight

He’s sat in a cushioned pub seat
wrapped in a red checked shirt.
His thick-rimmed glasses
are hanging off his wonky nose,
his cheeks are Mr Blobby pink.
He’s trying to tell a joke
about a farm or a shop or a lake,
he can’t remember
but the room of regulars
are nodding and laughing
and passing around dry roasted peanuts
and he remembers the joke
is about an airport
but everyone is gone.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

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