and your fingers are shaped
like the fizzy cola bottles
I’m eating to feel
like the child I used to be.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

My ironing board lost its job
about 12 months ago.
We pass each other in the flat:
me in three day old jogging bottoms
and slept in wrestling t-shirt,
it in its creaseless grey uniform,
bolt up right against the wall,
as if nothing’s happened.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The roadside banner said
PRINTI G SOLUTIONS
and I nodded
with the full force
of my knackered skull.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

There’s something
comforting about
lampposts having
individual numbers
marked on them,
as if someone, somewhere
has things organised.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

and the tiles around the checkout
were an Olympic swimming pool of hummus.
Tucked behind the frozen aisle
cried a thousand sniffless snow people,
while 60 hungry horses stacked themselves
on top of each other in a single bay
at the back of the indoor car park.
Outside, the day became night
and the man could see perfectly,
in the distance, a gathering of customers
high-fiving over the trimmings
of a Sunday roast together.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I knew I was dead
when a van pulled up
outside my flat
and the driver watched me
washing up my dinner plate
as he typed my every move
on his British Gas iPad.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I often think
about the person who voiced
the Sainsbury’s self-service checkout
leaving a house party.
I hear all the guests
drunkenly shouting
Thank you, goodbye!
as she shuts the door, her eyes
unexpectedly stuffed with tears.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

A journey app
on my phone
told me my walk
to meet a friend
burnt the equivalent
of 0.3 chicken tikkas.
In its passive aggression,
it failed to report
the rice water steam
let loose by a needed chat.

© Carl Burkitt 2021