Just look at my soft tummy,
the way I carry food in plastic bags
and worry about the planet melting,
the end I open a banana,
the dust on my stack of books,
the way I quietly say ‘You’re welcome’
as people walk through a door I’ve held
open when they don’t say ‘Thank you’,
the droop in my shoulders,
they way I should have died 30 years ago
from tonsilitis or an undescended testicle,
the travel toothpaste in my wash bag,
or how I once punched a wall
because spellcheck wasn’t working
on my laptop.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Top deck, front row,
your first roller coaster.
You are taller than a traffic light.
Thin glass is the only thing
stopping twigs tickling your hair.
You scream ‘hello’
at the roof of a café run by
a woman you know
then the street of a man you know
then a pub we’ve never been in.
You wave at a crane.
A builder on the seat behind us
asks if you’d like to see a picture
of the crane he works with
on his phone and you say yes
and you wave at that one too.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The hospital gave us a loaf of unsliced bread
and here we are, 40-something months later
with an empty bag. Crumbs
dotted behind sofa cushions, inside slippers,
on bookshelves, in pockets and hats,
tucked underneath fingernails, buried in conversations,
spread across every surface and story
and opportunity to find a new corner.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The public noticeboard in the cafe was stuffed
with lads willing to walk dogs, gyms set to open,
yoga experts, local theatre groups recruiting
people to tread the boards, slimming groups.
In the middle of the posters designed with
varying degrees of expertise was a hand written
scrap of paper: CLEANER, PREPARED FOR IT ALL.
I drafted an email on my phone explaining
I needed someone
to climb in and sort out the bit between my ears,
to tidy up the surfaces, declutter the drawers
to allow them to open up more easily. I typed
how I needed someone
to take charge of the heavy dust, stubborn stains.
And, like all emails that change the world,
I left it in the drafts folder for a few days.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The trailer for the Bob Marley biopic finishes
and people down my cinema row start whispering
how they can’t believe it’s not been made before
and start listing people they think deserve
a biopic about them: Wayne Rooney, Jeff Bezos,
Beyonce, the Cat Bin Lady, Seal, that bloke
who shouted “Fenton” at his dog in Hyde Park.
I go to lean in and tell them the bloke
who shouted “Fenton” at his dog in Hyde Park
in fact did it in Richmond Park, but the empty seat
next to me whispers how doing so will give away
why I am in the cinema on my own.

Carl Burkitt 2024

I am a grown up now
so I light a scented candle in the bathroom
after using the toilet for a challenging poo
and I think of you
and the way you are nothing
but an annual flame
sitting on a wick
until you disappear again.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The first time I went to the GP
to tell him I was depressed
he shuffled his bum on his swirly seat
and told me I was at an age where I had to
keep an eye on my tummy. He was talking
about the shape of a car tyre and walking
and the link between the gut and mood
but I wasn’t listening, I was worried
my tummy was feeling as empty as me.
Thinking my tummy believed
it did not deserve nice things
or was sitting in pubs with loved ones
who adored it, smiling at them
with teeth it would later use to bite itself
made me want to keep an eye on it,
talk to it with more compassion
than a bum on a swirly seat ever could.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Meet Vinegar Jones.
He lives in tailored suits
and a trilby the same colour as his socks.
Vinegar carries around a squash ball
(as a homage to Rocky Balboa)
and calls people ‘Cat’ and ‘Darlin’.
His hair is greased back
and he smells like battered cod.
He enjoys reading crime novels and eating walnuts.
Vinegar Jones isn’t real.
He is nothing more
than the name of a fish and chip shop
in the Lake District
on a weekend with no plans
and time to let the mind paint some pictures.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The toddler chattering
at the other end of the café does not live
with me but the noise hits me
like an ice cream truck in winter
or an airport speaker system announcing
my gate is open when my fry up has not even
arrived at my breakfast table. I am alert
and my teeth want to answer her about
why the windows are made of glass
and why muffins are called muffins
and if the sky is ever yellow
and if tarantulas can juggle
and why no one in the cafe is talking
but the toddler chattering
at the other end of the café does not live
with me.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The service station is called Truck Haven
so all the trucks are getting massages
from masseuse trucks and eating truck grapes
without even using their truck hands.
A few of the trucks are wearing truck robes
and soft looking truck slippers on their truck wheels.
I can see one truck lying on its truck back
listening to truck whale sounds
while another truck is kissing its truck forehead.
The trucks look safe. They are not talking
about the weather or the weekend
or how work is going or how their back hurts
because this is Truck Haven.

Carl Burkitt 2024