Mondays are pretty quiet in here
but the Morris dancers arrive at 10pm.
That’s a poem. She bought £285 worth of wine
without telling me and each bottle was the same.
That’s a poem. The curry house closed down.
That’s a poem. I was sat against the radiator
texting dad eating a scotch egg. That’s a poem.
I went to the Google offices 10 years ago
and left with 12 Cheesestrings in my pocket.
That’s a poem. Graeme died. That’s a poem.
She reads a book at work but not a good one
so it doesn’t matter when she’s pulled away
and asked to pour a pint. That’s a poem. Jim died.
That’s a poem. There’s a crack in the floorboard
that no-one will ever notice, but when they do
they’ll wonder how we keep going every day
when everything breaks, it always breaks. A dog
walked into the pub alone. That’s a poem.

© Carl Burkitt 2023