He’s wandering down the path
next to the main road with nothing
in his hands. No-one is thanking him
for saving their lives or telling him
to have a good day. His relaxed blue jorts
keep trying to convince him to walk
into the cafe, order an iced latte,
sample a slice of shortbread.
The peak of his yellow cap – brighter
than a headlight, bigger than a stop sign –
is pointing firmly at the junction.
His fingers are itching to wave.

Carl Burkitt 2024