We roll up spare towels now,
have hollandaise in the fridge,
use a milk frother for our son’s cereal,
have unopened wine on the side,
go to bed when we’re tired,
get up before alarms,
have scented sticks in the bathroom
watch fewer sad dramas,
eat crisps in our pants,
get lost on our own,
count the number of tiles in the shower
in case we’re kidnapped
and need the answer to be freed.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They’re playing cards in the pub:
grandma with a stout,
grandad with a stout,
granddaughter with a
SNAP SNAP SNAP
and I think about you
putting a magnetic crocodile head
on to the body of a pig
SNAP SNAP SNAP.
You slap your head and say Doh!
when you drop something,
I whisper hope to the sun
that you will learn to not hide
when the dark thoughts come.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The curtains have a thin wink
of moonlight peering through
at a pair of bodies;
one is creating a planet the
other will never see
while he sits awake
worrying about the air
in this one.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He has eggs. He has eggs.
He won’t stop yelling it.
He has eggs. He has eggs.
He comes by this street
every two weeks
to give them away. He yells.
He has eggs. He has eggs.
He won’t stop yelling.
A half of me is trying to sleep
upstairs through paper walls.
He has eggs. He has eggs.
I hear the words over and over
and think about what
I am capable of these days.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

your bananas will not be chopped.
There is no time for knives
or pulling them apart with fingers.
You will jab the plaster on my thumb
with a fist of curiosity. We will wonder
when does empathy grow?
You will hold the yellow flesh
with a grip that melts the middle.
The ends will smile as wide as you
and move on to the next adventure.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I saw the sign in the library window
promoting homemade lasagne for £2.50
and I wondered if I still had a head.
I was too tired to imagine
book pages made of pasta, words shaped
like mincemeat or cubed aubergine.
Never judge a meal by it’s cover charge,
or something. I don’t know.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

My eyes tell the mirror they’re older
than they are and the glass whispers
to look somewhere else, cook an egg,
paint the clouds with a made up colour,
learn to tap your fingers and feet
to different beats, pretend your comb is
a harmonica, be a boat, swim
in your sleep, write a joke on a receipt
and hide it in your wallet, pickle some gherkins, wash your hands with mud,
tell someone something, wear fluffy socks,
open the curtains, crack your neck loudly,
watch Bob Mortimer standing in a river
inventing sentences that need jotting down.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I roll up towels now,
like sausages I don’t eat.
I stack coasters
like fading pound coins
on a soggy bar runner.
I look in the mirror after eating.
I look left and right again and again,
over-pack for weekends,
text when I arrive safely.
There is a pair of socks
in my drawer greyer than
Eeyore’s morning porridge
with holes on the heels.
I still wear them. It’s nice
to feel where my feet are going.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I’ll have the same again
and I want you to call me a Wanker.
Be a pedant. Laugh at the way
I hit the 1 instead of the 20.
Tell me when my toe is poking
over the improvised beer mat oche.
Point out the typo
on the subtitles of the football.
My body is a hand
in the wrong glove most days.
I don’t want to ache anymore,
so rub insults over my pink skin
in the way only you are allowed.
Tap me on the shoulder.
Kill me with your words.

© Carl Burkitt 2021