The prick in the petrol station

He’s been standing in front of the crisps
for far too long, swinging his basket
filled with sausage rolls and energy drinks.
He’s wearing a polo shirt, I think it’s a polo shirt,
what’s a polo shirt? He’s just farted, not loudly,
but strong enough to hit the nostrils with a hint
of yesterday’s lamb curry. He’s at the front
of the queue now struggling to remember
the number of the petrol pump he just used.
I’m holding a litre bottle of spring water
because of my dry throat and I cough,
the man turns around and tells me
to put my hand up to my mouth as he
does nothing but float into a universe
of his own self importance.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

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