A child picks up
his frog-green bike helmet
and charges head first
into a concrete bollard
just to try something new.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

We’ve pulled up
next to a community football pitch
surrounded by a 20-foot cage
to keep the fun locked in.
You are covered in blueberries
and cheese that lived inside you
only one minute ago. We’re cleaning
your car seat, we’re taking you
out of your clothes, we’re sorting your hair.
You are pointing at the forensic team
in their PPE treading gently over evidence
behind police tape on a patch of tarmac.
A kid kicks a football into the metal wall,
you clap.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s holding them with equal importance.
His shirt is the white of the spiral on his ice lolly,
the sun cream smudge on his nose,
the Ray-Ban tan line around his eyes.
He’s looking at the predictable river
as long as the tie tightening around his neck,
the fold in his cloud grey trousers,
the temptingly stiff black belt around his waist.
His head is the stuffed shut briefcase,
opening briefly for a Friday afternoon lick.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s packing his bag with five T-shirts,
two pairs of trousers, a jumper, a flannel shirt,
five pairs of socks, five pairs of pants,
a few books he won’t read, some pens he’ll lose,
three pairs of emergency pants,
the aches in his back, concerns about big crowds,
the constant urge to open his stomach
and pack it with five T-shirts,
two pairs of trousers, a jumper, a flannel shirt,
five pairs of socks, five pairs of pants,
a few books he won’t read, some pens he’ll lose,
three pairs of emergency pants,
the aches in his back, concerns about big crowds.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

How many scalps
does a barber need to stare at
to get confident enough
to turn a customer’s head
to the perfect position
without saying a word?
My eyes are on a 30 degree angle,
they’re looking a plug socket
embarrassed it is painted
to look like the brown wooden
panelling it’s stuck to.
My eyes are straight again,
staring at a man unsure
when to say enough is enough.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I lie on my right
with my back against to the door to relax.
I think about burglars so turn on to my left
so I’d be able to see them coming in.
I think about being able to see burglars
coming in so turn on to my back
and I think about burglars breaking through
the ceiling so I close my eyes and think
about burglars smashing through my ears
and into my brain and stealing any sense
of a mind I used to have.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There’s a penguin in my house
built for cuddles. Its tummy
is soft like smooth mash,
its beak is a toffee
in my grandma’s handbag,
its flippers are permanently
come-here-son outstretched.
There’s a penguin in my house
who can’t talk. Its eyes
understand the situation.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

She doesn’t want cinnamon.
She doesn’t want cream.
She doesn’t want a cheese sandwich.
She doesn’t want a chocolate brownie
or a chocolate biscuit or a chocolate muffin.
She wants the hot cross bun latte
she asked for with almond milk.
Her black, logo-less cap sinks
further down her forehead
to the sound of her mum shouting
over everyone else, laughing
at daft puns from the man behind her,
coo-ing at the toddler with carrot puff dust
stained around his lips, asking strangers
if they have kids and telling the world
they’ll miss them when they grow up;
them and their ridiculous orders.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

After Lou Mach

You sit and think about how table legs have no feet.
You think about the mouth of a washing machine,
why our arms are not called branches,
why leaves on trees are not hairs.
You think about the life of a tea cup handle
and how few little fingers it’s been hugged by.
You think about whether or not
the blue you see is the blue I see
and whether or not eggs have feelings.
You think about it all and call it
The mysteries of life because you’re brave like that,
brave enough to think until your head
is a sock drawer eating everything it sees.

© Carl Burkitt 2022