He’s playing with a yo-yo, unironically. The string
stretches down past his unbrushed hair
to the three stripes on his Adidas trainers
stood in an appropriately wonky angle.
My word, he’s good at the yo-yo. His mates
don’t even acknowledge it anymore,
it’s like he’s got another limb.
None of them are asking how long
it’s taken him to reach this level. They’re not
shouting trick requests like Around the World
or Walk the Dog. He whistles before using
his free hand to carry a latte to his lips. His friends
talk about homework and biscuits
because they think magic stopped existing.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s leaning against the bollard
next to the burger bar, the place that takes
breakfast orders from 10am to 2pm but say
if you order after 2pm they’ll take your money
but you won’t get your burger.
He’s chatting to his phone
in a language we don’t understand.
We hear the word ‘banana’ and you smile
and he waves and he tells me
he gave you a banana last week.
He goes back to talking to his phone
and a lorry drives backwards and beeps
and your arms dance up and down
like the sun disappearing and appearing.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

You walk into a room OH WOW
You see a sparrow out the window OH WOW
There’s a cornflake on the floor OH WOW
Is that a bus? OH WOW
I am wearing one sock OH WOW
It’s another day OH WOW
Clouds and pigs and raisins exist OH WOW
You fall into a wall OH WOW
Paolo Nutini is playing OH WOW
Without thinking you climb into the skin
of anyone around you OH WOW
There’s a bin lorry OH WOW

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Popeye
will slurp
spinach,
send emails,
put his slippers on,
change the lightbulb,
complete a jigsaw or two,
flick on the History channel,
eat some peanuts, drink tea,
go for a walk, look at leaves,
worry about the thoughts
in his head, talk about it,
potter in the garden,
feed the creatures,
sit down
have a
nap.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Bloody hell, just collect sticks mate.
Save them from the mud. Drag them
through coffee shops and supermarkets.
Pile them high in your porch; make it
difficult for anyone to find their shoes.
Give it some welly. Make your walks longer.
Don’t apologise. Get more sticks.
Make them dragons. Hug the dragons. Make them swords. Kill the dragons.
Throw them through the sun and yell
I AM STEVE BACKLEY.
Talk to your sticks, mate. Give them names.
Ask them what they’re working on. Ask them
how they’re doing, even when they look sad.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He is beard and legs.
He is slow strides,
cracked neck, sore feet.
Fingers wrapped around handles
carrying ancient treasure.
We nod loudly
like the horns of Mini Coopers
beeping as they pass one another
wondering how they were built.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

It’s difficult teaching a child
how to trust when he sees
a superhero taking off their cape
to smother a helpless victim.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I know what he wears on a Friday,
that bloke with a ladder on his shoulder,
buckets for hands, Brillo pad smile.
I know what he drinks on a Friday,
that man with a scarf around his neck,
a swinging briefcase, a polar bear on his head.
I know when she lets loose,
that woman with juggling ball children,
running shoe feet, A to B eyes.
I know where he sits alone,
that guy surrounded by hyenas,
inventing a life, tap dancing forever.

© Carl Burkitt 2022