The mirror is actually a hatch
leading into a pub’s kitchen.
The chef with a beard is not
calling himself useless
or wondering why anyone
around him are even there.
He’s holding a knife
with gentle fingers that take
their time over ingredients
he feels lucky to have.
He doesn’t hate the carrot,
he wants the carrot to be
at its very best.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
He’s inside the laptop screen in a café,
for a meeting about the quarterly figures,
unaware his colleague cannot find her headphones.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
Here he comes, back with his name:
new moustache, crap goalie gloves.
He looks good having been dead,
drinks shit lager still.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
My friend’s name walks into the bar,
asks everyone how they are,
can’t recognise me.
Alive again, he
died, 16,
woke my heart.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
In the pub walks my school friend’s name,
thick, moustachioed, not the same.
It’s old enough for grandchildren,
exaggerates its footy game.
I drink a pint for 19 years,
see his face in a photo frame.
The walls turns 12.30am.
It’s cold. I see its smile again.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
Good evening, says my school friend’s name,
Ready to ignore me with his new moustache
And thicker waist in the pub.
Everyone talks about how the name is still alive.
My right hand holds 19 years in a pint glass,
Each sip the taste of a memorial tree outside a school.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
A name
will walk into
a bar. Thick, blood pumping.
I’ll drink 19 years. We won’t talk.
Blissful.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
There once was a school friend’s name
That didn’t quite seem the same
It never spoke to me
Was cold and ghostly
And exaggerated its goalkeeping game
© Carl Burkitt 2023
Thick, moustachioed,
The name talks, but not to me.
Blissful ignorance.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
My school friend’s name walks into a bar: thick, moustachioed, blood pumping through its heart. It orders the weakest lager it can remember pretending to like and sits on a secure seat. The name has lived long enough to have grandchildren and is exaggerating its skill as a goalkeeper to the tired locals. The name talks, but not to me. It does not recognise my chin or the way I laugh half as much as I used to. My right hand is holding a pint of 19 years and the empty chairs around me are filled with ghosts from the outskirts of London, Poland, the old town of Swindon. The walls are 12.30am and my friend’s name looks cold. Its arm hurts, but I can just make out its smile, the size of a tree planted outside a school gate or a double decker bus filled with blissful ignorance.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
Carl tells tales 