We gather where we can,
come up with reasons
to sit next to each other
and talk about the shows
we’re watching and the music
we’re listening to and the food
we’ve been trying lately.
We hang events on dates
to remember that we are
in each other’s lives
no matter how far away
we sleep and we agree
that sausages are better
on a Tuesday.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

What are you reading? he asks.
I take in the cactus stubble on his chin.
his Nike tick eyebrows, the way the curls
above his ears can’t resist resting on them,
his drainpipe skinny black jeans,
the mole on his cheek that looks
like a comma, the hairline that tells
me everything I want to know.
Nothing, I lie.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The wheelie chairs look lighter,
the floor looks bored.
The keyboards have stopped gossiping
and the motion-sensor lights
tutted when they came on.
I’ve never thought about whether or not
a room enjoys us being inside it.
The plants seem pleased to see me,
a familiar face, until I explain to them
that I will not water them because I don’t know
when they were last watered
and they tell me that they are plastic.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

There’s a cat on the train.
Its human keeps kissing it
through the black cage
draped in a Shrek tea towel.
Its human’s chest looks like
it’s going to burst all over the carriage.
The human asks if the cat can see
the sheep and trees through the window.
The cat says nothing. It doesn’t kiss
the human back but it accepts
the tuna sandwich and purs
when the human tickles its tummy
with their nose.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I imagined growing up
and having a black beard,
the kind uncles grow
to catch Sunday roast gravy.
My black beard was going to be thick,
thick enough to hide all my skin,
and I would have combed it
with a thin wooden brush.
I would’ve fiddled with my black beard
whenever I was nervous,
it would’ve tickled my collar at funerals,
I would never have known
how to keep it soft.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I’m reaching for your wellies
and dinosaur waterproof trousers
to stuff in your backpack like
it’s the most normal thing in the world.
You have skin and a liver and a yellow cap.
You eat cereal and play with trains
and breathe oxygen and allow it into your heart.
I’m reaching for your wellies
and dinosaur waterproof trousers
and I will be the one who has to
stop you drowning in puddles like
it’s the most normal thing in the world.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

She’s wearing a flannel shirt
the size of a blanket you would sit on at a picnic
with five mates, gossiping over pitted olives and hummus
with crisps made out of lentils or chickpeas.
She’s chatted to everyone who has walked into
this pub, asked them about their weekends,
invited them to tackle two down on her crossword.
She’s drinking a glass of sparkling wine
she’s calling her bubbles while scrolling
on her phone until the door opens.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

You’re watching me juggle three juggling balls
with eyes the size of a set of hospital scrubs
from three Augusts ago. Magic, you say
ignoring the 45 other wards you’ve learned today
and the fact your tastebuds now like radishes.
There’s a checked shirt in your cupboard
that you wanted from the charity shop
to dress like me and I’m catching each of these
juggling balls like tears on a cheekbone.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Romeo and Juliet
are eating donuts in central London.
They each have a wireless headphone in one ear
and their trainers are whiter than icing sugar.
It’s raining but their hoods don’t care.
Juliet’s puffer jacket is
thicker than a stab proof vest
and Romeo’s lips are jam and stubble.
They’re not talking with their mouths full
and I can hear their hearts inventing language.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I miss poems with exclamation marks!
The extravagant kind that tell people
Oh, how the world is alive! and
Your face lives beneath my eyelids!
We’re driving down the motorway!
There has been no delays! It’s dark!
We’re catching up about our last few days
apart and the lampposts down the central
reservation are candles for our feast!

© Carl Burkitt 2023