The pub is empty
except for my body and the conversation
between the landlord and himself.
He’s counting the beermats on the tables
and the dust-covered wine glasses.
The dead chairs look at me and ask,
What’s wrong with us? What kind of chairs
does next door or the bar by the station have?
Why are we not trusted to hold people?
Is it because we ask difficult questions,
check in when they don’t feel ready to reply?
Is it because the windows in here are large,
open, welcoming? Are we too old? Too chatty?
I don’t know if I’m the right person to answer,
I’m the sort of guy who thinks chairs can talk to him.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

to The Streets song the feet of the geezer
in the corner of the pub are tapping along to.
He sips his drink until it no longer exists,
rearranges his hair in the reflection of the glass
and heads to the bar. He orders another pint
and she keeps singing. She doesn’t say anything
to him. She just keeps singing and pours
the lager, pints at the price on the chalkboard
takes his change and gives a thumbs up.
He thanks her and she keeps singing
until confusion send him on his way
and the interactions poem can be only be
a blow-by-blow account of an event
with no hidden message. And she knows it.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

They’re meeting for the first time
over fist-sized croissants to talk about how
they can help each other. Their two businesses
have so much synergy it’s absolutely wild!
They’re discussing funding and cash flow
and development and assets. They guy
who was late to the café asks if it’s warm.
As he takes his jacket off, revealing a peck-
hugging blue vest and heavily tattooed forearms,
his new mate coughs and undoes his shirt’s
top button. Have you ever driven a forklift?
asks Shirt. Never, replies Vest. Their drinks
are delivered by the barista: one black coffee,
one mint tea. Shirt removes his cufflinks,
rolls up his sleeves and grabs the mint tea.
Thoughts on the cup final? he tries.
I’m a rugby guy, he gets.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

They giggle at their mate.
They ask if his bum cheeks have been shoplifting
or if his anus has been avoiding tax
or if his southern freckles have been heckling
stranger. They ask if his arse hair has been
swearing in public or if his wrinkled skin
has been having an affair. They laugh
into a silence until, Seriously, everything OK?

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The Tesco women are secretly vaping
behind the till and gossiping about their mate
Sandra. The smell of strawberries interferes with
chat about Phillip Schofield and how Norway
is not Britain. I’m drunk on a Monday because
I am Sandra and I’ve been texting a newly sober
friend who recommends eating too much food
by a beach in Portugal or Spain or Crete, I’m too tipsy
to remember which. I agree with her that I should
nip it in the bud because the tarmac beneath
me is far too soft. I thought the red man was
green 20 minutes ago and everyone who has died
in the last 36 years is still dead. They are not ghosts.
They are not looking down or up. The Doritos
they enjoyed or their cutlery I now eat with or the
Shirley Bassey records they hid don’t really exist. They
live in strawberry vape and opinions of Alison Hammond.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

about curly clouds and the egg yolk sun
and how reading a restaurant’s menu online
before getting to the restaurant is fun.
There will be lines in there about hair
and how you shave little wispies off my neck
and boopy doop doop ooooooh yeah
there will be death and dead things, oh heck,
but there will also be things like green grass
and Sunday afternoons with no plans,
dreaming of leaving next to the sea
and putting up with how much I hate sand.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

That’s how they’ll remember him:
shirt collar half up, hair not brushed,
one bag strap over one shoulder,
toast in his mouth, running out the door,
unthinking, selfish, toast in his mouth,
another piece in foil in case his mate
is unthinking, late, in need toast in his mouth.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He’s staring out of the TV guide,
the music gone from his eyes.
He plans to tune in at 9pm
hoping to find an answer.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He’s the kind of bloke who looks in vending machines
at train stations with no intention to buy anything.
He sees an unused grit bucket and thinks
That could be a flower pot.
He watches dramas and thrillers
and thinks, Wouldn’t it be nice if it ended
at 20 minutes when the characters are happy
doing what they’re doing. He enjoys his hobbies.
He’s the kind of bloke who puts his hands under
a broken public hand dryer and makes an
Oooooo-oooooooooh noise even when
nobody is around. He’s the kind of bloke
who makes up craft ale names for no reason.
He’s the kind of bloke who does what he can
to keep busy.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I wonder if Number 2 is embarrassed
that the rest of us are laughing at them.
You are currently caller number 10.

© Carl Burkitt 2023