His denim shirt looks casual
over a torso fit for a robot.
He’s sat awkwardly on a metal stool
like the unloved one in a boy band
in the dying weeks of Tops of the Pops.
It’s half time of a football match
people in this pub care about
and Lucian’s on a screen the size of a TARDIS.
He wants me
to reconsider what phone I have in my pocket,
but there are people in there,
numbers of corpses, hours of game time,
work I’ve been made to think is important,
photos for a child to remember I wasn’t always sad.
For a moment, Lucian’s paid-for smile
almost convinces me.

© Carl Burkitt 2023