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

Did I tell you about the story
last week of me trying to set up a bank account?
I didn’t?
Let me get you another ale
and packet of hot and spicy crisps
before I start
because you won’t believe
how long and unnecessarily violent it is.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I’m a bad guy
flicking a toothpick from one side of my mouth
to the other, chunks of cashew nuts
shaking in my molars.
My hair is an oil slick.
I’m strutting deeply down the street
like a dad on nights woken too soon
waiting for his hip to join him.
I’m a bad guy,
considering going to the pub at lunch.
I’m a bad guy.
There is someone walking towards me
and I am not even considering
apologising when I step out of their way.
I’m a bad guy
according to the eye in my brain
that refuses to look again.
I’m a bad guy.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He’s impressing all the ladies about his mission
to make his own banana vermouth.
They’re asking questions about the process
and it will take at least until December
because first he needs to make banana wine
which is why he’s on his phone right now
ordering a peculiar jar with an expensive air-
suction lid. He says he made a cream cheese cocktail
once and the ladies move to the edge of their seats.
One says she needs to go to the toilet,
the other asks when his girlfriend left him.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The man with combed hair
asking me for directions
to the Business Centre
is telling me I have egg yolk
on the sleeve of my
Macho Man Randy Savage T-shirt.

© Carl Burkitt 2023