The commuter is watching The Sopranos
on the train to London. It’s 6.45am.
Tony is reading the back of a cereal box
at his breakfast bar while the world burns.
His hair has been touched by a deep sleep.
His dressing gown hangs low, showing off
a chest heavy with thick hair and dreadful decisions.
The commuter is eating a Snickers.

Carl Burkitt 2024

“Are you a book reviewer?” she asks
from the café table opposite me.
“Pardon?” I say.
“Are you a book reviewer?” she asks
nodding towards the book in my hands.
“I’m not, no,” I say.
“That’s a shame,” she tuts
biting into her cinnamon swirl.
“Why so?” I say.
“It would make you more interesting
than a man reading kids books.”
“Right,” I say
returning to my story about a little boy
who has turned into a superhero and exploding her with my super wicked laser eyes.

Carl Burkitt 2024

I am soaked in my dad’s Lynx Africa shower gel
asking my son not to yell quite so loudly
in a house I once bob-sleighed down the stairs
in a sleeping bag after watching Cool Runnings.
The floorboards on the landing
creak with respect under my feet these days.
It takes longer and longer to wash my forehead
in the mornings. I don’t use the toaster for breakfast
and I don’t even know where the sugar lives.
The garden exists for flowers and delicate pots;
I ask my son to use the soft football
and tell him the conservatory used to be
a patio we damaged with a pogo stick.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The lights on the Spider-Man pinball machine blinked “relax, mate” in Morse code. Bob’s fist decided to order a packet of salted peanuts and not smash through the game’s glass cover. Bob took a look in the pub’s beer fridge and couldn’t chuckle at the gamification employed by breweries naming their beers “The Wizard’s Quiff” and “Peter’s Parker Jacket”. His calves felt tight from the morning’s 4.5km run and his back throbbed like a mid-work migraine from an afternoon yoga session – his latest attempt at lunchtime mindfulness. Bob ate a salted peanut from his now open packet and sighed at its dry roasted flavour.

Carl Burkitt 2024

His phone is dead.
He can’t live without his phone.
He’s chatting to strangers on the train,
telling them about his day
and how his phone is dead
and how he can’t live with his phone.
His smile is half of the moon.
He didn’t bring his phone charger out
and his phone died this morning.
He managed to get the bus to the pub
and it was great to see the guys
but his phone is dead. He missed the game
and he punched a brick wall. It hurt.
His phone is dead. He can’t live.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Bubbles float in pool water
in front of laboured breast strokes.
Each breath a reminder he is alive,
each pop a reminder for how long.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The food delivery app just told me it misses me.
We’ve never really talked, so I was surprised.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered
to be thought about. In the few times we have
interacted I have been angry – my fingertips hot
from hunger and indecision. Looking up at
my face in those moments cannot be nice.
It makes me think about my son wanting
nothing more than to make me a pretend slice
of toast topped with squid slime and apple cores
while my brain is squashed by matters
that don’t matter in the blink of my lifetime.
I see his shoulders slump to my distraction,
drafting future email subject lines
that will catch my attention.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The self help book-sized pigeon don’t care
about blocked bathroom plugs. It don’t care
about
bean stains on favourite white t-shirts,
to do lists written in half broken pens,
a nagging sense of never being fulfilled,
a creaking floorboard, a nagging sense.
It cares about the inch of warm park grass
below its feet; the promise of a fresh picnic.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Thomas the tank engine pulls
into Ramsbottom train station.
His carriages rock
to the chuckles of children inside
at the destination name.
Diesel moans at the joy.
His face scowls as he’s attached
to the back of the train
charged with hauling it back home
and huffs at the voices
singing ‘Thomas, number 1!’

Carl Burkitt 2024

Everyone meets in here,
their insides unafraid to mingle
and share stories of the daal they recommend
and the bubble waffle stand with thick Nutella.
Together they dance
in each other’s late night fries,
warm ales and packing-up-tomorrow-anxiety.
Memories of bands from the night before
and morning eggs congeal in this faecal sauna,
this unexpected sanctuary from the sun
and midweek responsibilities in the backs of brains.

Carl Burkitt 2024