and I’ve decided
to let Mr Tumble tell us
the story of Jack and the beanstalk.
You’re holding a full length breadstick
because I like remembering you
smaller than you are.
Jack is lugging a giant goose
back down the beanstalk
and I’m struggling to believe
he is strong enough to carry
something bigger than himself.
Mr Tumble is trying his hardest
to move the story on
but you manage to hit rewind
and you’re somehow 20 years old.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The washing machine arrives held by men
with hands the size of beer barrels.
They don’t want a cup of tea because
they’re both desperate for a piss. I apologise
for the tight corners they had to manoeuvre.
They’ve seen worse. They use a drill
for something I don’t understand.
It makes my son cry. I mention I’ve never
been able to confidently use a drill. They ignore me.
The shorter man says he likes my Jim Beam
bourbon whiskey t-shirt, the larger one says
he prefers chinning the stuff. I don’t mention
I can’t stand the drink and none of us
bring up how it belonged to a man
with more courage I can imagine
and how I’ll never have the chance to tell him.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I’m in a car park
behind a swimming pool
next to a thin-wired cage
surrounding an astro-turf football pitch.
Orange and blue hi-vis vests
stop running in circles
to the words of their coach:
What the fuck did I tell you on Saturday?
You’ve got to fucking concentrate.
My son laughs in my wife’s arms;
he’s staring at a puddle
shimmering in the wind.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

As I said that
a tree’s branch slapped into my face
with the force of an insecure boss
wondering why you’re smiling.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The substitute goalie is set to play.
He hopes his gloves are as sticky
on the outside as they are on the inside.
His team’s fans are on the other side of the moon.
The sun is in his eyes. He can hear
his manager’s chewing gum taking
one hell of a beating. The whistle blows
and a thousand different colours
start running around the green lava.
He could’ve sworn people had faces earlier.
All he can see is every mistake he could
possibly make today and the ball floats
into his box and the blobs at the end of his wrists
catch it. He stands still. He has a chat
with his defenders. He wants to ask them
how they are, but just screams
they should be working harder.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

It was like nothing had happened.
People still waved to each other,
cats meowed, dogs tried
not to eat their own turds,
supermarkets opened and needed
bread to be stacked on their shelves
by confused seventeen year olds,
mayonnaise stayed thick, eggs cracked
under pressure, crumbs fell,
muscles and bones and skin grew,
grass got mowed, footballs got kicked,
tarmac still existed: solid,
warm in the sun, death
on countryside lanes at night.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

and the world decided to shine for the day:
puddles didn’t climb into soft trainers,
cats on their second or third or fourth (etc) life
reset back to their first, conkers grew polished,
clouds looked like whatever you wanted,
people said the word Cheese and meant it,
crumbs took time off, small talk
sounded like an on-form orchestra.
We got dressed up, like kids
with the time and space to be anything.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

He drinks thick chocolate drinks
in tea cups in coffee shops
so the other adults don’t notice.
The frothy brown moustache
gives him away
but we don’t say anything.
He pretends to look at the crossword
and hides a novelty gingerbread head
up the sleeve of his denim jacket.
He has the eyes of a man
who loves a fairground,
the wet nose of a puppy,
the tight chin of hidden concerns.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

After Simon Armitage

And out of the void
poured a man made from gravy.
His muscles felt like old times:
excited for Sundays, eyes waiting
for the opening credits of Heartbeat,
teeth a packet of peanut M&M’s.
The driveway was full of pogo sticks
and the stream flowed with water again.
The sun was a Yorkshire pudding.
The birds were salt and pepper.
The grass was the middle shelf of the oven.
He didn’t care how hot his skin was;
you cannot dissolve what is already liquid.

© Carl Burkitt 2021