I will never get a dog
because I do not want to be a dog walker
who finds a body in the woods. 

© Carl Burkitt 2023

so I started filling it with hilarious observations
and encounters. Things like the time a dog
in the park had the same name as my mate
and how my mate sat down when the owner yelled
Sit! And when a toddler in the cafe ask if I was
Father Christmas. And when a bloke in the pub
didn’t hear himself fart. And how yesterday’s
cloud looked like my maths teacher’s hair.
And the gentle way my son says Soap
when he means to say So. And the way I enjoy
the sensation of jolting awake in bed
after feeling like I was falling because at least
a butterfly-sized part of me knows
staying alive might be a good thing.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

A woman is walking
what appears to be a dog
in the park I appear to be writing in.
I don’t know what breed it is but
all of the fur on its body
except the head
has been shaved, making it look
like a toilet brush with legs.
I don’t have much to write about
today. My relationships are going well.
My body is exercised and fed.
The dead people in my life are still dead and
a woman is walking
what appears to be a dog
in the park. 

© Carl Burkitt 2023

We are alive on the living room floor
driving fire engines in sunlight from glass doors.
Your fingers are emotions
in traffic jams waiting to explore.
Anger sits in nails, sharp, quick,
on the surface, not the core
of you. We must remember to trim them
gently. Let them grow. You will roar.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Mother and son in cafe seats,
thin yellow raincoats, sunshine cheeks.
In the smallest hands,
a gingerbread man –
while it can –
smiles with teeth.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I miss being slide tackled.
I miss slide tackling someone.
I miss coming together with a stranger
in the heat of a goal mouth
to make a bowl of shin pad spaghetti.
I miss mud on my bum.
I miss dry ground ripping skin
off my desperate knees.
I miss being slide tackled
by someone who wants to break my legs
because they’re having a bad day
and the thin stitching of my socks
that reminds them of their father’s skin. 

© Carl Burkitt 2023

They’re comparing how many people in their lives have died by suicide. John, the guy with tennis shoes whiter than his receding hairline, has lost one acquaintance. Pete with the fat wallet and Ray-Bans has lost two colleagues. And Mark with the beige fleece and flustered cheeks says he’s lost four best pals. John and Pete move down the pub booth like Mark has a cold they can catch. They all laugh. Behind the bar is a photo of a brewer in 1952 sticking his thumbs up. His eyes are black and white. I’m next to the exit drinking a pint of 7.5% ale because I couldn’t tell the smiling barman that I actually ordered half a pint, or how today was one of those days my skin doesn’t need me. Mark is walking to the toilet saying, “If I’m not back in 10 minutes, call the ambulance.” My fingers are twitching and I’m thinking about the cutlery my uncle left me.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Squirrel spots dog
Man spots squirrel
Dog spot squirrel
Dog chases squirrel
Man chases dog
Stinging nettles spot shins
Man spots stinging nettles
Shins jump stinging nettles
Dog loses squirrel
Man spots squirrel
Squirrel spots man
Rain spots man
Rain punches man
Dog spots squirrel
Dog chases squirrel
Mud spots man

© Carl Burkitt 2023

They’re swaying to the barman’s question.
Sweat sits on foreheads stronger than
a vow of silence. The one in a pristine tracksuit
with flecks of half-digested damp chip
in his moustache orders a round of ciders.
The barman puts his mop down and chooses
a quiet life. He pours the first pint
and some chip drops to the floor.
The football referee on TV blow his whistle
for the game to kick off.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I don’t want to go
up into the loft without her there, you see.
What if my legs gave way on the ladder
or the past came to life and opened damp boxes
with fingers made from forgotten secrets.
I hear the roof creak
when she’s at work like a heart overstuffed
with love letters. I died
in a nightmare last night. But what is a nightmare
that doesn’t scare you – a dream?

© Carl Burkitt 2023