He’s recently moved to the North
and doesn’t have a friend to call his home.

I listen to his Australian accent
explain how his son is only three weeks old,
how his girlfriend is yet to fly to England,
how the streets here rain with loneliness.

I offer umbrella-words of comfort
about how strangers smile at you up here,
how landlords and shopkeepers
remember your name up here,
how the sun will surprise you up here.

His accent melts into American
and he tells me his name is Mac.
Sesame seeds grow on his now bready head
and his face is lettuce and tomatoes.

I wake up, frustrated
this poem is just a stupid dream,
and plan to worry about Mac forever.

Carl Burkitt 2026