I think I fancy the guy behind the bar.
The top button on his brown checked shirt
sits neatly in front of a voice box
that is asking questions his ears want
the answers to. I don’t think he likes football.
The game is on a TV behind him
and he hasn’t turned around once
to check the score or moan
that someone more talented than him
doesn’t know what he’s doing. I tell him
I have a son and he wonders what it’s like
to guide a brain through life. I tell him
it’s difficult, especially teaching him
not to confuse a stranger being polite
with absolute trust.
© Carl Burkitt 2023