He walked past me, smelling
like a bloke who washes himself
in good deeds and mint.

His t-shirt looked lucky.
His watch gave up counting away
the time it gets to spend with him.

The tarmac was all too happy
to help him float down the street,
beyond the chip shop he waved at,

the green park he whistled hello to,
the bus stop he saluted and wished
good luck. I find myself thinking

about how few people have the time
to acknowledge each other as we walk by.
Then I remember the stranger

who shouted “You look like Greg James,”
at me recently after a Big Special gig,
“In a proper sexy way, mind”.

Carl Burkitt 2026