The man dragging the full industrialised dehumidifier
across Cheadle Hulme Costa has zero sweat
on his neck, forehead, armpits, biceps and –
presumably –
above his buttocks. Even his mouth is dry
until a young barista carries over
a cup of something hot (I can tell by the
steam)
and a pastry. He waves the pastry and chins
the cup of hot liquid. I wouldn’t say
his scream is unbecoming, but the way he
threw the dehumidifier was deafening
(and impressive).

Carl Burkitt 2026

I like to imagine him sitting on his sofa
in a pair of fluorescent orange and green pyjamas.

On his lap is a dinner of chicken skewers
with a bowl of Chupa Chups for pudding.

He’s holding the TV control in an upright position
the base resting on his restless thigh,

sporadically pausing Traffic Cops
to let thoughts cross
from one side of his brain to the other. 

Carl Burkitt 2026

Tiger Woods is playing Australian crazy golf
in the north of England in January.

His PING branded woolly hat is not only
happy to be useful on such a cold afternoon

but thrilled to show his date he has all the gear.
She is far too busy chattering her teeth,

pretending not to want him
to offer her either his gilet or his ski jacket

to notice he has been at least 4 over par
on every single hole.

Carl Burkitt 2026

My son is a snowman.
His pink carrot nose twitching
in the cold Sunday air,

twig fingers dancing across
barely formed car bonnet mountains,
sledge heart racing towards
a day of ‘It’s finally here after waiting all Christmas’,

woolly hat ears ignoring the neighbours
next to our drive tutting about how
this quarter inch of light snowfall might
‘possibly, maybe, make it slightly trickier
to get to work tomorrow morning.’

Carl Burkitt 2026

I could just say the arms of the plane-spotter
standing behind the runway’s fence
are the wings of an Airbus A380

or the vertebrae in his spine
are rows of seats on an Ryanair flight
or his lips are wind socks
or his eyes are propellers

but the truth is his nose is
the stretched out point of a Concorde.
It’s moulded with a one-of-a-kindness,
designed for sniffing out adventure.

Carl Burkitt 2026

The lad on BBC London’s New Year’s resolution was
to ‘Get a tortoise’. And he got one on 1 January.
He named it Banana and it lives on a skateboard.
I don’t know the boy’s name but his smile
was longer than the time it would take
for his new best friend to beat a hare in a footrace.
I could live in the space where his top teeth are missing.
His second resolution is to ‘Be the best tortoise parent’
and I put my phone down to build some Lego.

Carl Burkitt 2026

The only man on the train
nods at me with his concrete forehead.

When I nod back, I realise
he is nodding at my open bottle of Peroni.

I tip the neck of my beer towards him
imagining the foam is a tuft of grey hair

on the head of an older man
who never makes social mistakes.

Carl Burkitt 2025

My son is reading a Paw Patrol book,
his Rudolph hood resting on his back
ready for the night of his life.
George Michael has just stopped
singing. A news story on the radio is
explaining how a woman fainted
while driving along an A-road this week.
After failing to wake her from the passenger seat
her 12-year-old son took her foot
off the accelerator and slowly turned
the steering wheel to guide them to safety.
My son’s ears stand taller than an elf’s
and says, “You don’t know how to drive.”
I tell him that’s true.
“And neither do I,” he warns.

Carl Burkitt 2025

I am Robert De Niro’s dad.
With that tea towel on your head,
blue robe on your shoulders,
not yet five years from your birth –
last year’s school nativity
was too much for your mouth to explain.
When your colleague passed you
the microphone, you understandably handed it
to your best friend to carry on the show.
But today you are Host Number 50.
The character who won’t stop dancing.
Your neck is a Santa red bow tie.
Your chest is buttoned up shirt
smiling with candy canes and Christmas trees
stuffed inside a pick up truck.
Your heart is a megaphone shouting:
“And they have cross desert wastes
to be with us this evening”
to a sea of parents who do not know
how you were forced to drow 12 months ago.

Carl Burkitt 2025

The model railway owners are lined up in church
as neatly as their train track layouts are.
Thermos flasks and lunchboxes wait patiently

as they show off miniature steam engines,
painted trees, plastic mountains, faceless men,
fake rivers shining under strip-lighting.

The enthusiast is pointing his electric finger,
asking questions beyond his years,
holding in the poo he desperately needs.

Carl Burkitt 2025