She’s writing her Christmas cards
on the fold-out table on the back of a train seat.
The pile she’s finished is on the 7am chair
next to her: pale white, bolt upright, thick
as a door stop. Her hair is familiar.
She’s wearing the navy blue and grey floral dress
my therapist used to wear and she’s just written
the word MUMMY on a freshly opened envelope.

Carl Burkitt 2023