He struts out the door
wearing jeans tighter than his calf skin.
His glasses are thick, clean, expensive.
His quiff is a full roll of tissue paper,
his jumper a woollen cubicle door.
We meet in the corridor at the top of the pub.
I smile, he takes his phone out of his pocket
and keeps walking.
The freckles on the back of his neck
are Morse code for WHO CARES.
© Carl Burkitt 2023