I’m watching him doing laps of the patch of green
next to the chip shop. He’s being followed
by his Lassie-shaped dog sniffing fallen leaves.
The man has an ill-fitting chain around his neck,
knuckles as deep as graves,
and lips looking for a forehead.
He’s done about six or seven laps
in the time it’s taken me to find a dry bench
with someone’s name on and work my way through
a cheese and pickle sandwich made
with the care of a mum. He has a face
of someone doing their best to smile at strangers.
Every time he reaches the oak tree in front of me
he kisses his hand and touches the bark.
His dog sits until he moves again
and doesn’t ask any questions.

© Carl Burkitt 2023