I am sitting on a bin
13.8 billion years ago.
A disco ball yet to be invented
is spinning inside the pub
that will one day stand here.
Men wearing white t-shirts
with the word MEAT across their chest
are telling me to smile
and I will
because this is where
the Big Bang will occur,
any minute now.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There is a boy called Carl
being told off by his mum
in the soft play centre.
I don’t know what he did
but he has a smile on his face
like it was worth it.
My son is throwing balls
out of the ball pit
and I don’t know what to do.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

slumped by the pool on Love Island;
full of fake beans, sat
under the weight of chit chat,
not being spoken to, listening,
too embarrassed
to walk over and get the sun cream.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The blue and orange balls
on the bouncy castle
are Blippi’s shirt and suspenders.
The lionesses in your box
have two legs and play football.
The liquorice and mint Matchmakers
are train tracks, the tortoise in its hutch
is the soft toy in your bookshelf.
The people in the phone
are in the garden right now.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He yells it across the shop
like wind in a storm.
I hope this rain doesn’t follow you.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They’re sharing
a bag of Giant Wotsits
leaning against a wall,
watching the pump
slide into a car’s hole,
winking at each other.
Just too young for petrol,
never too old
for the Chupa Chups
in their back pocket.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.
The words squeeze their way
through the cracks in two doorways.
Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.
I feel the creek of my hip wake up.
Daddy. Dad. Daddy.
I see hands at the ends of my wrists;
a new, familiar shape of freckled shovels.
Dad. Dad. Daddy.
Patches of my head sit between hairs;
the gaps as soft as soil for problems
to grow underneath like potatoes
I’m learning how to pick and peel.
Dad. Dad. Dad.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s holding four bags of cookies
for the office. His eyes are cups of tea,
his mouth a row of sugar lumps.
The bounce in his step on the outside road
jumps up to the flat I’m standing in
waiting for my son to wake up
imagining the four bags of cookies
he is holding are for the office.
I can’t even see his eyes.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The karate boys are in the coffee shop,
cheddar cheese belts wrapped
around white bread jackets.
They are kicking the air, the chairs,
each other. One just chopped his certificate
in two. Five of them are running between tables
topped with cappuccinos and chocolate muffins.
They’re lifting their arms up: KIAI! then throwing
them down. KIAI! and down again.
Hiya! a toddler waves, desperate to join in,
the karate boys ignore him. KIAI!
The only girl sitting atop a barstool,
wearing the only orange belt in the room,
waves at the toddler, Hiya,
before returning to her ham toastie.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

he is 11 foot tall and has six eyes.
I like how his arms are made
of wooden beams and his hands are
goalkeeper gloves and his teeth are
the knobbly bits on a guitar’s head.
He is always there, under my skin,
buried in the bones of my wrist joint
when winter decides it should hurt.
I like how when things are going well
he turns up as a grey mist
to remind me that death is always there
and it’s a choice whether I join him
or do what I can to remember buttercups exist.

© Carl Burkitt 2022