and the colour ink you might have chosen.
I think about whether you would’ve dotted your i’s
or left them wondering who they are.
The neat, pre-packed boxes of your things scream
you would’ve folded the paper cleanly
down the middle, using a board marker thick
finger to keep it shut flush, no gaps to see through.
It’s impossible to walk past a dropped sticky note
or slice of notepad in the street covered
in desperate reminders for a living memory.
I collect lost shopping lists in supermarkets
and cobble together a basket of your final meal.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Debris gathers in my back pocket
like guests at a surprise party.
Crumbs of cheese ask miniature pebbles
ask belly button fluff ask bits of leaf
ask cornflakes found under the sofa
ask torn tissue ask dead grass
ask hairs from tired heads
what they do, where they’re from,
what they’re up to this weekend,
who they know around here.
They talk about a hand the size of a plum,
the way it scooped them up and held them
in front of eyes bigger than a fruit bowl.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

and tell us something about the price of milk,
remind us what aisle the mangos live,
explain what time this supermarket closes
and whether we have any wholemeal bread
out the back and if there’s a secret
to how you walk like the world has no oxygen,
as if conversations are something we’re fortunate
to have and how it’s possible for you to look
at a stranger with the gentleness of a fresh leaf.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They’re standing in her thinking space;
one across the way chasing leaves,
one down for no reason at all.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Your trainee eyes
take a trip to your fingers
with a million years
worth of ideas.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He has I-could-break-your-neck shoulders.
He’s carrying coffee shop trays covered
in teapots, cups and saucers
with one hand in his skinny jeans pocket.
He knows what I want to order
and gets to prepping before I ask for it.
His chest is out. His chin is out.
He seems ready to take a punch
and I believe he’d take one for the two of us.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

His eyes are teapot spouts
wet from breakfast leaf.
A cheese and tomato sandwich
fits in his hand like an arse
in a corner-sofa. He has a way
of watching an afternoon melt
into an evening like an odd couple
settling their differences
in a safe romantic comedy.
We were wondering where you were.
I’ll wait until my usual seat’s free.
See you again next week!
The tree outside his window
wears the same bark every morning;
armour wrapped around life.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The van drives past
with the words on the side
oblivious to what it’s doing
to the imaginations
of tired minds.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I’m stood in front of the sign outside the dentist
rolling my tongue around my mouth
to answer the question with Yes, four.
The gaps have closed over the last 20 years
and I can’t even remember why
they had to be taken from my skull.
I wonder where they are. I wonder if they remember
me. Of course they don’t. I wonder why my brain
wastes our time putting sadness on things like
lost teeth. My son is laughing as he strokes
the giant front teeth of the lady painted on the wall.

© Carl Burkitt 2022