I am topless in the kitchen. My son
asks why my stomach has hair on it.
Three hours later – in the café
reading a book about a man desperate
to find his fun self again, the self he was
when making friends was easy
and his skin was knife-proof, the self
that had heard of thunderstorms
but never felt one – I thought of my reply:
You know the patches of Nana’s grass
that are slightly taller because of dog wee?
That’s what’s happening to my chest.  

© Carl Burkitt 2023