The lads are in the park with their tops off.
They’re talking about Lionel Messi
struggling to kick their red ball to each other.
They don’t care, it’s just good to be outside
and let their belly buttons feel the fresh air.
I’m doing laps of the circular patch of green
listening to my phone telling me
about the health of a man I love, desperate
for the red ball to accidentally fly my way,
desperate to connect with it.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The novel I’m reading involves a man
desperate to become a better person.
He believes all his pointless little lies will,
if not bite him in this life, make his existence
in the next realm an unsavoury one.
He decides to stop saying It’s fine when
people accidentally step on his toes,
or No worries when his friends are late
to meet up or I’m good when he feels
like his skin is not his. It made me think,
which is odd, because I’m not reading a novel.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

One day I will get on a flight
wearing jogging bottoms
and a T-Shirt that’s loose
around my arm pits and stomach.
I will bring fluffy socks and a neck pillow.
I will chew sweets on take off.
I will take care of myself.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Don’t worry about me,
spending the hours I have left
trying
to say the same thing
in a different way
with the only words I have.
You just sit in the porch
after a day of trying out your body
and say
I’m sweating like an octopus.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I go to BBQs in spring sunshine
and chat to scientists. We eat sausages
and watch the tide go in or out
and they tell me how, on a molecular level,
the majority of the natural world is left handed.
I think about you, struggling behind your desk,
while a teacher with fingers like whips
orders you to live your life the wrong way round
as a boy with your hair and ears
fails to throw a stone into the water
and quickly moves on to something else exciting.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I met this guy a week ago. He seemed gentle
with the smile of a cool PE teacher. We hit it off
so went for a drink the next day. I had a frothy
coffee and he had a fruit smoothie with bits in.
I enjoyed his company and things went a bit further
the next four days: we were making
each other laugh and learning. He told me
he was one of three and hated his hairline.
He said he liked seeing shapes in clouds
and how Edge was his favourite wrestler.
He told me about the best pizza he’s eaten
and how he puts on a mask in front of his mates.
We chilled the next day and I kissed him.
I’d love to hear how he thought the week went.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

We fill the boot alone together:
me today, you 40 years ago.
I can’t drive, so try to be useful.
You deliver goods and invented Kerplunk.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The wrestling podcast host says
time travels at different speeds
at different life stages
and I’m 13 years old for two decades,
lying on the sofa in my pants,
looking up at your body on the banister,
waiting to feel the warmth of you
travel through my chest.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Edith Bowman is talking about Steven Spielberg
and I’m thinking about stories that end well.
Edith Bowman is talking about Alex Ferguson
and hard work and staying young and I can see
autumnal scarves wrapped around a neck
holding up a made up face on a Sunday afternoon.
Edith Bowman is talking about Quentin Tarantino
and I can smell boiled gammon, hand cut
white bread, the swear words of Samuel L. Jackson
weaving in and out of the telly like crotchet needles.
Edith Bowman is talking about Steven Spielberg
and how she cried after interviewing him
and I join her. It’s raining in London
and my phone just told me
the matriarch left the family last night.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

One day I’ll be a graffiti artist.
I will scurry around town in broad daylight
scrawling my tag or name or witty puns
or motivational messages or the portraits
of you inside my chest on skyscrapers
as big as your memory.

© Carl Burkitt 2023