It wasn’t a ghost postman
delivering letters from the dead.
It wasn’t an invisible menu dropper
letting us know about the latest
zero calorie pizza from Crust Begone.
It wasn’t the combined air
of the local foxes laughing
about the state of our front garden.
It wasn’t a sigh from my self esteem
wondering why I was still in yesterday’s pants.
It wasn’t a tut from my to do list.
It wasn’t the huff of a miserable goalkeeper.
It was just a gust of wind
opening and closing our gate,
reminding me of your chatty jaw.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

What do you think
our photographs of people are?
2D ghosts?
Shit TV?
Pink shadows?
Broken iPhones?
Miniature rude
family members
ignoring your
smiles and screams?
You look at them
with an old fashioned awe.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I’ve never seen your shorts in the dark,
but pushing your trolley with headlights
you deserve to puff out
your orange hi-vis chest
and have the lick
of a first class pat on the back.
I’ve never read a letter
after eating my dinner
but I bet it would taste sweet
to spoon the thoughts
of a late night loved one
into my toothless eyes.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

A poem with each line using
the title of a book piled on my desk.

Sometimes I’m so happy I’m not safe on the streets,
a small fiction.
Poor,
arbitrary and unnecessary
fury;
the problem with men
on connection.
My family and other superheroes,
finished creatures,
dancing by the light of the moon.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The pack
of Doritos
said SHARE
and we both
opened up.
It was cool.
It was original.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

There’s a bear in my house
who says Heart
when you squeeze its chest.
Its ears make it sing.
Its favourite colour is blue,
its favourite colour is red,
its favourite colour is green
depending on what paw you press.
It’s covered in drool,
it has a crinkly stomach,
and it never stops smiling.
I hope it’s OK on its own at night.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Most popular moisturisers
make my beard flaky.
At 6 foot 4,
when I try to fit in my white bath,
I look like a rejected angel
crash landed after being pushed.
Vitiligo melts me in the sun.
No amount of bicep curls
make my twig arms thicker.
But I like the smell of roasted carrots
on a Sunday
and the wide eyes of a snowball
desperate to grow.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I’d like him to enjoy anything
as much as I like a Pringle in my mouth.
I’d like him to know where his food comes from.
I’d like him to have a relationship with outside
and a relationship with inside.
I want him to see people
enjoying doing things for the sake of it,
rather than hunting an end goal.
I want him to have a nose for questions.
I want him to know
that sometimes when we walked in the woods
with him on my chest in a sling,
and I needed to find a bush to have a wee,
I always made sure I didn’t hit his socks.
I want him to know that being weird is fine,
as long as you’re not hurting anyone.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Whitney Houston is sitting
in the corner of our living room telling us
she wants to dance with somebody
on repeat and I don’t even know
where I keep my I.D. anymore.
I’d love to try and convince a man
three times my size to let me into
a dark space only to bump into people
I struggle to speak to in the daytime.
When I was 16
I would take my black socks off
and pull them over my white trainers
to pretend to bouncers I was wearing loafers.
I wonder if my teeth could still handle toffee vodka.
I wonder if my legs would now
have the confidence to leave
when they were ready.

© Carl Burkitt 2021