Perfect.
The brother of a friend is
being attacked by the drunk lads
in the street. A chance
for my blood to remember
how to run into danger.
My fists don’t fancy fighting
and just let my chest
take an elbow to its soul.
My grounded head swallows a foot,
watches fireworks go off with an answer
to my therapist’s question:
“How’s your week been?”

Carl Burkitt 2024