He bought a cardboard tub of nachos
and crunched his way through a film
about wrestling and dying men.
Cheese dropkicked his teeth, guacamole
frog-splashed his tongue, salsa held
his moustache in a side-headlock.
It was fun, the next day,
thinking of light-hearted ways his food
could have hurt him – more fun than sitting
in the atmosphere created by the death stare
at his echoing jaw from the woman behind him.

Carl Burkitt 2024