Your ankles are in the coffee shop.
They are as smooth as the ice
underneath the hockey match you’re watching
on your unscratched, white laptop.
You have a hot chocolate,
chin stubble thicker than sticks,
nostrils the size of pucks.
I’m writing in this notebook
desperate to bite your shin bone
to see if you’ll hit me,
if you’ll ask how I’m doing,
if you’ll invite me to join you
and explain the rules of the game.
© Carl Burkitt 2023