You can see it in the pretty clothes he picks
for his daughter, the £450
vet bill for his original fur baby.
His head is a crystal door handle
decorating walls like a disco ball
when the light of a stranger’s interests hits him.
He splices open bags of crisps in pubs –
smoked meat options for the meat eaters,
cheese and onion just in case there are
secret vegetarians among us –
and his mind dances to familiar fingers
nipping in and out like Hungry Hippos.
He knows his way around an expense receipt,
pours out compliments like free gravy.
A bag of peanuts is a reminder that
conversations are poems about death
and 1990’s Arsenal footballers
and obsessions that can become dangerous
if not shared over a stained oak table.
His chest is a megaphone that screams,
‘Just rhyme the last two lines as the reader leaves.’

Carl Burkitt 2025