There’s a pig on the shower tiles
made out of blue bath crayons.
It looks tired. Its tail is barely attached
to its wonky body. It’s learning how to be
here, unable to move its mouth
the way we are around it. It’s watching
everything, it’s watching nothing,
it’s completely unaware it is a pig
and not a pig and how loved it is.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

She holds you by the edges,
desperate not to leave a smudge.
Her eyes are see-through, crisp.
Every word she says is clear and laid
gently like you’re the only one alive.
Look up and you will know what to say,
what to sing, what it means to be
in a room built for you to yell.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

stand in a pyramid like cheerleaders
proud of their mate who’s in the show,
the one on the back bit of the toilet.
I just searched online for its name
and an illustration suggests it’s called the tank.
I was born pretty much the same way
as adults who know words like shut-off-valve
and don’t particularly smile at floor flange.
What do they do when they brush their teeth?

© Carl Burkitt 2022

This city doesn’t care
about the football match I’m watching alone.
It’s on silently in the corner of the pub,
my commenters are Duran Duran
and the sound of pool balls clinking.
An impressive save is made
and the crowd are ice cubes
clapping in a pitcher of red cocktail.
A man is eating a slice of gammon
the size of a centre circle
with his back to his wife.
There is an exit sign next to the TV
that feels like home.
Duran Duran just got turned off,
the commentary is getting louder.
Gary Neville is talking the language of the carpet.
The gammon has gone.
The man has his arm around his wife.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

After James Tate

We had a big fight one night –
all the blood in my body,
the rich tea biscuit bones,
the rotting bench in the park,
tight leather loafers, chest pains,
wet look gel, the smell of chicken,
that tree we once stood around
and read speeches with our
17-year-old mouths, the sun.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Thanks for your email, Paula.
I’m certain it involves gravy
and roast potatoes cooked
impatiently. I won’t make it
on Parky and I’m already
the age of a third choice goalkeeper,
but I will see faces in tree trunks,
celebrate putting socks on standing up,
and eat crisps from time to time.
I will be the old lady in the park
who’s watching my son laughing
at daisies in the grass. She’s holding
her husband’s hand and crying
in that way you do
when you realise nothing will be
the same, and that’s OK.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The sign outside the new dentist surgery
on the high street by the pizza restaurant
is standing to our right. You are rejecting
a packet of carrot puffs with a voice
desperate to learn my language. Your fingers
are sticks of dynamite pointed at my nose,
strangers are eyes rolling back in time.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

the feeling of chocolate bones in summer,
a bacon scented umbrella, a bridal
procession at a funeral. Sticky notes
cling to the desk with teeth
covered in scribbles not worth biting.
When the world ends tomorrow
my head will not be asked for help,
so I step outside sometimes,
put gloves on my fingers to stop splinters,
stand fence panels upright,
hold a hammer like a giant pen,
give my back an opportunity to break.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There is toddler poo under my fingernail.
Every box of cereal is open
because choice is something that turns you
into a fist. My eyes are the bags that used to live
underneath them on Sunday mornings
eating sausages through beer breath
texting friends to see if they’re alone this morning.
Mr Tumble makes me laugh. The weight of showing
you how to evolve and talk and listen hangs around my neck like a phone call
I think about most days. We’re sitting
on a cold morning bench at a train station
you will grow up near. You are dancing to
the sound of the announcer’s voice listing towns
neither of us know. How this world came to be
is nothing more than smart shoes, a posh meal,
and a trust that will always let me fall.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

No rain. The bottom right corner of my laptop
tells me what outside is doing. My back is
to the window at my desk. No sunshine.
I feel the steam of my cup of tea. Humid.
Nothing but water rings, dying flowers
and a growing list are here with me. Cloudy.
I have to be careful. Rain is coming.

© Carl Burkitt 2022