Too cool to wipe his piss off the public toilet seat

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

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