He’s holding his two-litre bottle of Fanta
like it’s a baby, lying safely in his arms,
but it’s not his baby – it’s a two-litre bottle of Fanta.
He’s walking towards me on the high street,
smiling, and I’m smiling at him and his baby,
but it’s not his baby – it’s a two-litre bottle of Fanta.
I’m thinking about the soft skin on my son’s tricep
and how this man soothes plastic to sleep at night
but it’s not his baby – it’s a two-litre bottle of Fanta
and my back is a thousand years old, I cannot
wake up without thinking something has died
or we’re going to be late for pre-school
or this power I have over someone else’s
developing brain and not my own
but it’s not his baby – it’s a two-litre bottle of Fanta.

Carl Burkitt 2024