pointing at buses driving by.
When they leave your eyes
you wave and try to say Bye bye.
The man who was here last week
walks over and says Here again?
and I try my best
to say more than Yep.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I give them with such confidence
he says he feels like he’s already there.
Which is good, because I don’t
know where I’m directing him to.
I’m not from round here and I can feel it.
But I am here. And that’s important.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The chimney on the roof
of the furniture shop
turned its neck
because it was a pigeon
which was actually a dog
with fur that was foam
because it wasn’t a dog
it was a sleeping bag
stuffed with rocks
that were balled fists
made from bags under eyes
on the face of a ghost
looking at the roof
for something to look forward to.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

We’re on the left as you walk in
on a square, faux-marble table.
I have a panini stuffed
with three types of cheese,
only one of them is from France.
Some Walkers ready salted are sat beside it.
Two men to my right are talking
about Moira Stewart being born in Scotland
and I won’t tell them she was born in London.
There are no pictures of Patrice Evra in here,
but I am thinking about his talented feet
tapping on the tiled floor wondering
when they will fully settle into their new town.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

It’s earlier than it’s ever been.
We are walking pre-dew. The clouds
haven’t separated. The pavement
hasn’t softened. Morning. Car doors
are closing gently, they don’t know
they have horns yet. Shops are eyes.
Morning! I’ve said it twelve times
to people in fleeces. Their boots have springs.
Their cheeks are crinkled maps.
Autumn is summer if you get up before weather.
Morning. See you soon, pal.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Tim takes his time walking over to his two mates –
salt and pepper beards, cue ball heads, thinning
jumpers – with appropriate caution in each
of his steps while his fingers clutch three pints
of ale in an amber triangle. He daren’t look up.
You know what, Tim?
What’s that?
You could be a barman.
You think?
If it weren’t for all that paint on your hands,
dirty bugger. The laughter clinks
like a trough of empty bottles clattering
into a glass recycling bin. The air softens
as the dregs of previous pints are downed.
How’s Debs coping, Tim?
Better. Thanks for asking.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

We sing Coldplay and talk
about children outside the takeaway.
We are only a quarter cut
because we wake up for important things
now. Are hugs are as long as the miles
between us. It didn’t take much
to slip into our old dancing shoes
and remember the routine. How are they doing?
How’s she getting on? He alright?
Everyone gets ticked off. We say,
That’s a shame a lot more these days.
The pizzas we cooked at home were nice.
You didn’t have meat for me. We shared
two between three and I’ll have some for lunch
tomorrow. You get on the train and we wait
for heart burn.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Leg. Leg. Leg. Leg.
Red. Blue. Green. Leg.
Sock. White. Whistle.
Leg. Sausage? Ball.
Leg. Leg. Clock. Leg.
Grass. Looks. Too. Good.
Yellow. Red. Flags. Leg.
Why. Am. I. Here.
Leg. Leg. Leg. Hands.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

She knew what he meant
but her eyes remembered
marrying a man who believed in things:
clinking champagne before sipping,
never walking under ladders,
if we get wet we get wet,
buying another pack of eggs just in case
because if we already have some
they’ll get eaten anyway,
it’s worth a shot.
She picked a conker off the floor
and put it in her wide open pocket.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

We’re going to be late for a grown up thing
and you spot it, peering through a crack
in the meeting of concrete and brick wall:
the first firework in the north, a fist
with the winning lottery numbers tattooed
across the knuckles, God mooning,
a green meerkat, a vertical planet,
the queen on tiptoes, a yodelling fox.
It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, so I watch you
watching the life out of it.

© Carl Burkitt 2021