There’s a football player printed
four times the size of him telling me to buy a razor.
The pixels of his skin look like a patch of leather
we used to kick around in the garden. Once,
we took the flesh of a ball off and pumped
the sad sack inside as far as it could go.
Watch your eyes in case it pops, my dad said.
We looked the other way and kept pumping.
The thing bag grew to half of me
and we punted into a tree. We couldn’t
reach it, so grabbed a rake and watched it pop
until our eyes blinked us to today.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

All the dads are in the cafe;
weekend smiles, weekday eyes.
A lot’s changed in seven days,
the rocket ship in yellow leggings
doesn’t like tiffin any more.
She prefers a chocolate cornflake cake
smashed into a billion pieces.
She’s learned how to drink
through a straw, say the word window,
put her hands in the air, how to stand
up on the table. The planet she’s from
is trying to keep up, roll with the punches,
allow his bones to sit in a chair
that isn’t in front of a desk.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

A torn open box of Shreddies, a lidless
bottle of whole milk, a forgotten raisin,
the smell of tired toast crumbs, the sound of teeth
meeting a metal spoon, water sitting
in a stolen pint glass, a smiling banana skin,
a patient pair of Velcro trainers, a bored wallet,
a bottle of sun cream and an egg yolk cap
with the name of a sunrise written on the label.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I’m in the wardrobe
hanging out with
the thick jumpers,
hats, and scarves,
that don’t feel
up for seeing
the light of day.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

You’re sat on the sofa eating an apple
letting the chimp of you enjoy the afternoon.
Juice is rolling down the sleeves of your
tractor hoody. When the sun shines
through the window gently enough
to show the miniature hairs on your skin,
I understand the urge to remove bugs
from the crown of your head, lift
the thoughts that might stop you climbing
if you’re not careful. But you already know
the word no and wave me out of the way
of Tinky Winky swinging a handbag.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

His T-shirt doesn’t match his face.
He is also part full of cold chips and ketchup,
the disappointment of seagulls,
the thrill of blue candy floss,
successfully skimmed stones,
buckets of sadness, spades of electricity,
curiosity of cliff edges, the embarrassment
of public toilet tap water on light grey shorts,
the sound of crabs claws clapping,
the joy of a weekend with no plans,
the dread of a weekend with no plans,
the introduction to sea air, nervousness
over the gaps between old pier floorboards,
upside down ice cream rage. He is part full
of every single thing he has ever seen,
smelt, and felt trying to tear through his skin.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Their Liverpool away shirts match
as much as their bearded jawlines.
If they were holding hands
they would be passionate Dad
and eager to please shadow again.
They are standing on a pier
238 miles from their city, the day after
their team were on TV, holding on to
something more important than hands.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There will be days
when a chocolate coloured Mini
will drive by with a French Bulldog
hanging its head out the window
while circus music plays from the speakers
and all we need to do is buy milk.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Do you have any playing cards?

Nope.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

One episode is enough to wonder
if your television is trying to kill you.
They’ve shoved the lot into one creature.
Cut her open and her bones will be
sticks of rock with the word glitter
running through the middle. She smells
like candy floss and a week off.
Has your head ever been hit like a piñata?
I think about the animators.
Do they walk to work and see the hope of sunshine in a grey cloud, the glow
in lightening, the cleanliness of a hearse?

© Carl Burkitt 2022