Slowly becoming a local

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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s