I can’t drive.
Even though I’m 37 years old,
whenever I see blokes my age beeping
the button of their car keys or climbing
into the driver’s seat or rearranging the angle
of their wing mirrors, I can’t help thinking
they’re too young to be allowed such responsibility.
I watch them
hoping they will turn round and insult my skinny
legs, call me ‘snappy’ because of my biscuit bones
and tendency to jump down someone’s throat
in the school canteen when they’re just joking.
I don’t care that they’re with their wife
or two toddlers or on their way to work,
I want them to sit next to me in German class,
to use their shoes for goalposts, to not die
down a country lane.

Carl Burkitt 2024