He asks the best questions.
He doesn’t laugh or understand
the snide comments of the other guests.
He wants to know what other people think
about the bad guy hurting the good guy
and if they noticed the change in lighting
or musical shift or the way the champion
has started to grow his beard recently.
He apologises for talking too much.
He apologises for stuttering.
He apologises for being in the way.
A man called Kyle calls into my favourite
podcast ever week and they always call him
Carl. He never corrects the host’s mistake.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

and I’m thinking about you lying
in bed, your blood working out
if it is going to play tennis one day,
build a library, make bread, deliver post,
invent something I can’t think of right now,
dance, do dentistry, sell building tools,
drive a futuristic lorry, be a clown,
draw people to you for doing your best.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

His knees know too much.
He is as old as the 20th century was
the year I was born.
The tongues in his trainers
have as many stories as the one in his mouth.
Sweat suits him. It runs
like time over Lycra skin. He nods at trees
and whistles the clouds away.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Kathy Burke says people stop her
in the street asking her to tell them
to Fuck off instead of asking for a photo.
Perhaps the man in the park,
the one telling me to Fuck off
while I’m trying to take a picture
of a daft squirrel in a tree,
thinks I made the same request of him.
He’s gone now
unaware my brain will wear him
like a mole I’ll have to keep an eye on
for eternity. 

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I am topless in the kitchen. My son
asks why my stomach has hair on it.
Three hours later – in the café
reading a book about a man desperate
to find his fun self again, the self he was
when making friends was easy
and his skin was knife-proof, the self
that had heard of thunderstorms
but never felt one – I thought of my reply:
You know the patches of Nana’s grass
that are slightly taller because of dog wee?
That’s what’s happening to my chest.  

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The newspaper says we live
in the 26th most desirable place in Britain.
It speaks of cask ale pubs, cocktail bars,
the proximity of the train station
to most amenities. Linda, who’s been here
for over 50 years, says she’s surprised
it’s so high because the green spaces have gone
and the infrastructure can’t support
the ever increasing population. Ben, 21, says
he’d like at least two more pubs
and I can’t find anywhere to buy a new belt.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

She asks what he’s reading.
Nothing, he says.
She waits, then keeps walking.
He looks up from his book,
not reading a thing.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The band will form
in a dying town. Matthew on drums,
Matty on bass, Matt on guitar, Doug on vocals.
Their songs will focus on fried breakfasts,
farming, omelettes, and other topics
that mean the world to them.
When they’re not recording, they’ll sit
on a filthy beach and learn how to drink.
Matthew won’t speak. Matty will skim stones.
Matt will take his top off. Doug will see
lyrics of loss in abandoned seashells
and not know what to do with them.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

we are crabs
chatting about the importance of life rings.
You ask my why buoys are called buoys
and I don’t pretend to know
and remind you
to protect your chips
and the soft side of your soul
from seagulls.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I wonder if Pele or Maradona
ever had to sit and wait this long for anyone
and a sweat attacks me
with the thought of anyone hearing
me, for a second, compare myself
to Pele and Maradona. I am thirsty,
but cannot swallow a my brain.
You are currently caller number 9.

© Carl Burkitt 2023