Billy on the street WhatsApp group is
giving away his old trifle bowl for free.

Light is reflecting off the glass
like freshly brushed teeth preparing
to chew through soft ladyfingers.

I picture holding the base of it
like the captain of Custard FC
on an FA Cup Final Saturday,
eyes bigger than salad spoons.

I can smell my grandparents’
front room, hard-soled slippers
pitter-pattering on kitchen tiles
in time with weekend rain.

Katie has messaged Billy
to say she wants it. I snap
out of the fantasy that I will
ever be like my grandma,
as my left hip screams.

Carl Burkitt 2026