The poster is barely visible
between morning bodies. I can see flowers,
shots of yellow reaching up to the tube station
ceiling, blue petals licking their lips
at the memory of water, green stems struggling
to stand. A man with a too-chipper-for-the-time
voice is telling everyone there’s a platform issue
but we’ll be on our way soon. As backpacks shift
uncomfortably from foot to foot, the poster
shoots me winks of art gallery logos, dates, times.
A sneeze I’ve never met kisses my neck.
When shoelace gets tied
by a bent back and gloved fingers
the words A little slice of paradise are revealed
to seduce me behind graffitied plastic.

Carl Burkitt 2024