Man and Labrador
walking slowly down the street.
One foot. Two paws.
One foot. Two paws.
A simple pattern unrehearsed.
They’re not talking to each other
in that way humans and animals
don’t talk to each other that much
or hungover best mates
having spent the evening before
using up every in-joke carved
out of a mountain friendships,
their personalities exhausted,
warm, relaxed. One of them
does a poo on the pavement.

Carl Burkitt 2024

I feel like the street with a dental surgery
next to a chocolate shop should feature
in some kind of poem looking at the pain
of human decision or lack of accountability
or quick fix culture or decline of willpower
or the importance of arms around shoulders
and sticking beside the people you meet
or feeling safe enough to just have fun
or capitalism or greed or high street decline
or irony or coincidental town planning
or something, anything, surely, who cares.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The email subject line is telling me
to find my personal trainer. But I do not
have a personal trainer. And, if I did,
I’m too busy/tired to find them. I’m sitting
in a café wondering what I will have for breakfast.
I hope my personal trainer is OK.
I know I’ve never met them, but you think
they’d be in a decent enough shape
to look after themselves and escape
any trouble they might be in. Unless,
of course, they’re hurt or stuck in a ditch.
I’d like to help but my hip is a bit tight
and exercise has been low on my priority list
lately and life is so heavy in the mornings
and what good can I really do?
I hope my personal trainer is OK.

Carl Burkitt 2024

She says it
on a train
to her colleague
in between biting
and swallowing
the entire core
of a Granny Smith apple.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Pete Sampras served me a cup of tea
in Starbucks today and I made a joke
about it being ace to see him and he tried
messing about with the words deuce and juice,
which didn’t quite land, but he seemed nice enough.
I watched him for the rest of his shift. His safe
hands passed out flat whites and slices of sponge
cake to people who didn’t even flinch.
I watched his thick, hairy arms carry the weight
of a tray stacked with four teapots, six mugs,
and five plates peppered with biscuit crumbs.
I watched him nibble the leftovers of a kid’s banana
when he thought no-one was looking. His eyes
rolled back to between sets at Wimbledon.
His feet tapped on the floor and I could see
a white towel wrapped around his neck
as he plotted his next move. A customer tapped
his shoulder and explained the toilet was blocked.

Carl Burkitt 2024

I cannot punch it
because it is in your head.
But I want to.
Let’s spend today learning what to do
when our thoughts want to eat us.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The poster is barely visible
between morning bodies. I can see flowers,
shots of yellow reaching up to the tube station
ceiling, blue petals licking their lips
at the memory of water, green stems struggling
to stand. A man with a too-chipper-for-the-time
voice is telling everyone there’s a platform issue
but we’ll be on our way soon. As backpacks shift
uncomfortably from foot to foot, the poster
shoots me winks of art gallery logos, dates, times.
A sneeze I’ve never met kisses my neck.
When shoelace gets tied
by a bent back and gloved fingers
the words A little slice of paradise are revealed
to seduce me behind graffitied plastic.

Carl Burkitt 2024

He’s got a,
well,
it’s a sort of blue jumper,
you know, a kind of navy blue jumper
built up from a thousand little squares
threaded together with a zip,
a zip, on the outside of the bicep,
a zip, on the side of the bicep
kind of like I’d imagine an army boy
wearing on a two-day break on a quiet island
during a weekend off from being an army boy
and his head is shaved and the sides are shaved
and his back is straight and he’s eating mints
and his boots are polished and his jeans are ironed
and the sheet of paper, the one underneath
the iPad playing an episode of EastEnderss
has the words Untitled Miami Project written on it.

Carl Burkitt 2024

He’s watching videos of Serena Williams
on his smartphone on the last train to Manchester
from London Euston on a Thursday evening.
It’s a compilation of all her greatest tennis shots.
I cannot hear the sound of her striking the balls
or grunting or yelling or panting her way
to becoming the greatest tennis player of her
generation because he has his headphones
in his ears and he’s tutting at the sound
of the train driver announcing we’re 20 minutes
late and I have my own headphones in my ears
playing the soundtrack of the Pixar film Up
and I’m looking at the man next to me
wondering how we’d both cope floating away.

Carl Burkitt 2024

I typed
Writing prompt into an online search engine
and the first one on the first website said,
Set your story during a month of drought
— whether literal, or metaphorical
and I realised how thirsty I’d been for
at least the last three weeks and how sometimes
I quite literally do nothing to look after myself
even when my body wants me to. So I looked
at the second prompt on the website,
Set your story in a bar that doesn’t serve alcohol,
and I picked up the pint of water on my desk
that had a few bubbles of time floating and I
read the third writing prompt, Write a story
in the form of diary entries, written by someone
who has set themselves a month-long challenge,
and put the glass back down and convinced
my body I know what I’m doing.

Carl Burkitt 2024