There’s a scarecrow in the pub
wearing an orange and black checked shirt.
His straw hair is poking through his trucker hat
and the bottom of his jeans are tied together
rendering his feet missing. But that doesn’t matter,
he doesn’t need to go anywhere. He has everything
in these four walls: thick ale, 70s rock,
a free local newspaper, a heavy set
of double doors preventing the thirsty sparrows
and hungry pigeons flying away from his small talk.

© Carl Burkitt 2023