He walks into the pub – black duffle coat,
black beret, black jeans, black running shoes.
Looking suave, I say, as he whistles towards me.
Even with these soup stains? he says,
lifting up a splashed sleeve of his jacket.
What flavour soup? I say.
Who knows. Here, he says, You’re a writer,
you’ll like these. His hand dunks itself
into his black satchel, pulls out a notebook
stuffed with the last words of dead celebrities.
Peanut? he offers.

© Carl Burkitt 2023