There’s a zip down the spine
of a man from our street
with teaspoon coloured hair.
I’m yet to open it,
but I daydream about wearing him like a onesie
to shuffle up to Sainsburys
or the dusty roadside barbershop,
past the leafless trees that droop
like his bones on a good day,
and back again.
I want to know how long it takes
for his paper white running shoes to fade
and if the tweed jacket
and Jaffa Cake box blue tracksuit trouser
combo
is a comfy as I tell people it looks.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Sweet and Savoury
Tea and Biscuits
Little and Less-So
Stumble and Crumble
Creepy and Crawly
Left and Right
Matte and Gloss
Bucket and Pipes
Slap and Tickle
Nosy and Not-So
Mash and Gravy
Honest and Weary
Daft and Trying
Knackered and Hopeful

© Carl Burkitt 2020

For me it’s a packet of honeycomb
from a pop-up fairground.
It’s dancing with no pants on
with the curtains wide open.
It’s flicking the correct light switch first time.
For me it’s pancakes on a Wednesday.
It’s knowing who’s walking down the stairs
based purely on the creak of the floorboards.
For me it’s the perfect text back
to a message about my favourite tree dying.
It’s smashing old fashioned toffee
with a mini hammer.
It’s leek and potato soup in a metal bowl.
For me it’s a missed call
followed by an Everything’s OK voicemail.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

10 minutes into wandering
through an M&S petrol station
I realised I’d forgotten my headphones
and the podcast I thought was boring
was in fact two middle aged men behind me
chatting about A roads.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Bored.
Tight trousers.
No one’s trimmed their nails.
Horrible smells.
Can’t read.
Can’t eat bread.
Can’t spell bread.
Dead arm.
Dead leg.
Dead people they’ll never meet.
Can’t say I want bread.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I walked past a man today
whose scent melted my kneecaps.
He smelt like a hard day’s fun
mixed with apples picked
by the hands of an old lady
planning to make a crumble
for a son she barely sees.
He had the eyes of someone
who had been crying for a while
but there was a cold wind blowing.
He wasn’t whistling,
but I bet he bloody had been,
the half skip in his step
and 600g pot of Cadbury Roses in his hands
gave it away.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Watching a professional football player
gently control a bullet of a 40-yard pass
with the inside of their weaker foot
while barely looking
reminds my bones what they’re capable of.
My heart backflips
when a goalkeeper lets a simple cross
slip through their hands
because they’re too busy
thinking about the future.
Bovril is the only meat-based liquid
I’ve ever had
with 60,000 people shouting Wanker.
I wonder if referees have friends
who are kind enough to ask How are you?
and mean it.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Business names with puns,
like Jason Donervan,
make me want to meet the owner.
I want to know what came first,
the business or the pun.
I want to know if they smile
every time they see their sign.
I want to know if they can handle
the small talk from new customers,
I see what you did there!
Your name is funny!
I want to know if they use puns
for other stuff, like their pet’s name
or to explain how they’re feeling sad.
I want to know if they’re OK.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I would have about three or four legs
and patchy fur and dry skin
and a couple of eyes in the back of my head
and a thick skull and long tail
and I’d lose the eggs I had to look after
and wouldn’t bother flying or swimming
and would nibble grass and crisps
and just watch all the humans
walking confidently on their two legs
making clear decisions
and wonder how on Earth they do it.

© Carl Burkitt 2020