When I forget how to trust,
I think about the piles of grandma cheques
sitting in postboxes around the country.
I think about how we lick goodwill
on the underside of our 2D Queen
and silently agree we won’t interfere.
I think about the wedges of crisp birthday cash,
loose change, priceless love letters.
I think about the pristine, first class jam sandwich
that found its way from a little town
to my seaside letterbox.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Did you enjoy your time here?
Did you get the chance to see enough?
Did you try the fruit and vegetables?
Did you stretch your arms and legs?
Did you look at the clouds?
Did you imagine your third toe would grow that way?
Did you ever say that thing to that person (don’t lie)?
Did you ever take a step back?
Did you ever breathe?
When did you realise your skin was
not designed for you and why didn’t you tell anyone?
Did you ever truly like eating mince pies?

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Walking to the shops
to buy milk is a chance
to remember I’m alive.
If I had a milkman,
I’d order bottles of stuff
Sainsburys don’t have in stock:
liquid birdsong, full fat laughter,
the cure for the thing on your finger,
a ten count, bouncebackability,
self-esteem, Graeme’s smile,
the ability to put my socks on
without sitting down.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The lollipop lady wrote ‘Go’ on both sides of her stick.
The ice cream man used razor blade sprinkles.
The milkman delivered four pints of PVA glue.
The postwoman shat through the letterbox.
Peppa Pig snapped George’s Trotters.
Tinky-Winky stabbed Po.
Elmo sang F is for Fuck You.
Willy Wonka kicked Charlie Bucket in the cock.
Scooby-Doo ate his own eyes.
I had to peel two plasters off my baby’s thighs.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I am filling the boot, you are milk.
I am high notes and woof woofs.
You are Hello!
You are Hi!
You are Hiya!
I am raspberries.
You are a race car.
We are white noise.
We are a made up song.
We are every trick in the book.
We are clueless.
We know everything.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I’ve never liked flannel shirts.
When did Frank Skinner
have a baby with Peter Crouch?
Did he just order a portion of chips
after already eating a burger and chips
and onion rings?
Jeremy Clarkson looks younger than I thought.
He fiddles with his wedding ring a lot.
He’s definitely pretending to read that book.
I wonder if he’s the kind of guy
who looks in the mirror and asks his reflection
questions he doesn’t want the answer to.
It won’t be long until he has to shave that head.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

More than twice a week
I think about the extra I saw
in an episode of EastEnders
who accidentally dropped tea
down his trousers in the café
as Phil and Grant Mitchell
argued in the foreground.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Sometimes things are late.
Three FA Cup Final goals arrived
outside M&S while my wife
went through the weirdest time
of our lives.
Our son looks like
every human ever made
but I can wait.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The head
of a poorly poured beer
is the fuzzy optimist
I wish to be.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Four pairs of underwear
is not enough for two days away
because what if I shit myself more than twice?
What if five friends need to borrow a pair?
What if six mice need parachutes?
What if there’s no confetti at the wedding and we
need to shred my pants to throw at the couple?
What if I accidentally murder someone in the street
and the ambulance never arrive and there’s
no one to cover the body like they do
when someone dies in a film and I have to sew
my underwear together and lay it over the corpse?
I hate packing.

© Carl Burkitt 2020