The public bench
by the shop my brother had his first
weekend job no longer has
the word BEEF spray painted on it.
The car park is exactly as it was:
square, full of cars, no wildlife to hide in.
My eyes are three and a half
decades old but can still see the lads
who told me to give them my change.
Lactic acid leaves muscles eventually
but that feeling you are meat never does.
I pushed a sleeping cub outside the shop today
while a lion not from round here
gathered mini Twisters and Cornettos.
We ate them as the sun seasoned our skin.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

and I must say it is stunning.
Oh look, there it goes
back in its van for another year.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Inconsequential things
like your loose change, the kitchen roll,
the spare batteries, the egg cups, your wallet,
your glasses, your keys, your keys, your keys,
the time, the smell of bacon, the
the energy to say sorry
but you’ve spelt my name wrong,
your sense of self worth, the football sticker book
in the 90s when all the West Ham players
were impossible to find, that picture of you
in the limo that made the news.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Does the sun cook your skin to crackling?
Do your teeth become leather after sugar?
Do you laugh when you fall over?
Do you pack too many pairs of pants
for an overnight stay? Do ties feel too tight?
Do rooms feel too big? What are leaves?
When did you last cry at a cloud?
How often do your bones tell you to do something
completely irreversible? How often do you listen?
Has it been a few weeks since you thought
there was a reason to your feelings?
Isn’t it strange when the floor melts
and you realise you are only stood up straight
because you are doing all you can to do so?

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The driver of the van
has sunglasses like the Terminator.
His face is the shape of a bullet,
forward on the road in front of him.
He cannot see toddlers waving
because he has a skip to return,
a square holding dead fun.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The bald head and beard hangs up,
wipes the damp skin of his nose.
His shoulders sit with the biscuit crumbs
on the floor. The chewing of his chewing
gum softens. His eyes are good news.
Have you ever seen a man
folding paper he’s no longer scared of?
His thumbs do the waltz on his phone
which sings back to him immediately.
He orders a chocolate muffin
with his next cup of tea and shuts his laptop.
His chin looks up and strokes the ceiling,
where it remains for my entire life
as I walk out of the coffee shop.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

After Apple News

There are not enough squares
in a calendar to organise
what I’m losing control of.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The square tag poking out of the generic teapot
in the paint-by-numbers coffee shop
makes my think about 500cm long sausages,
toast taller than the flat-packed flats opposite,
bacon wider than the road outside
getting battered by predictable rain.
I wouldn’t know what to do if I saw a baked bean
the size of a regulation football,
black pudding as thick as a coffin,
tomato halves like train wheels out of here.
Please don’t show me the hen that laid
the fried egg larger than the town I’m in.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Wear your nonsense on your teeth.
Point at every thing you see and scream.
Dance your Babybel hips down the ramp
from the jukebox to the pool table.
Look at the football on the TV
and wonder what you will be
when your arms are the length of Mars.
Dress like your mind, be furious.
The men are leaning on barstools that are
even older than them. They say they cannot
find the energy to chase you or teach you
or be you, but they don’t mind.

© Carl Burkitt 2022