My belt is cow leather, as is my wallet.
I got them before becoming a vegetarian.
Throwing them away feels like
binning a ham sandwich made by a forgetful Nan.
I’ve never worn fox fur scarves,
leopard patterned trousers or snake skin shoes.
I struggle enough wearing my own skin.
If someone peeled off my top layer,
I’d make a pretty good waterproof dressing gown
for an average sized person looking
for a bloody hug.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I enjoy washing the dishes.
I pretend the tablespoons are battleships
and that I’m giving my hands a bubble bath.
I don’t, but I might next time.
I pretend the plates are my babies
and I’m cleaning a weekend adventure off them.
I don’t, but I might next time.
I like that it forces me to be on my own for a while.
I like that it slows me down, makes me feel useful.
I look out at the bus stop opposite my flat while I scrub
and wonder if the combination of a waist-high
windowsill and a first floor kitchen
makes it look like I’m masturbating to passersby.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

There’s a spiral in my fingerprint that I get lost in.
It’s like something from a Geography textbook.
The middle is thin and intricate
then expands into controlled chaos.
When I think about everywhere I’ve left it
I get a little overwhelmed:
car door handles, ice lolly sticks, eggshells,
the side of my temples, Christmas crackers,
funeral order of services, dog poo bags.
It sits near the tip of my left hand’s ring finger.
That one gets all the stories.

© Carl Burkitt 2020