I am soaked in my dad’s Lynx Africa shower gel
asking my son not to yell quite so loudly
in a house I once bob-sleighed down the stairs
in a sleeping bag after watching Cool Runnings.
The floorboards on the landing
creak with respect under my feet these days.
It takes longer and longer to wash my forehead
in the mornings. I don’t use the toaster for breakfast
and I don’t even know where the sugar lives.
The garden exists for flowers and delicate pots;
I ask my son to use the soft football
and tell him the conservatory used to be
a patio we damaged with a pogo stick.

Carl Burkitt 2024