like she’s five minutes late for a meeting.
Every six or seven seconds, the knobbly bits
on the insides of her ankles click together
as if starting a fire. The tarmac is an airport
travelator. The moon hasn’t realised
it is morning. I hope it knows it won’t be paid
for this overtime. The woman has her phone
in her hand, her fingers thinking of an excuse
before dialling a number. A pigeon appears
on the path in front of her. It’s having
the kind of day that doesn’t need wings.
The pigeon whistles a crumb into existence
and waddles casually towards it. The woman stops.
She’s watching it be slow.
© Carl Burkitt 2023