Lads gather:
All biceps on tattoos,
Curly hair underneath
Red and white woolly hats spidering its way
On to foreheads,
Square jaws,
Shoulders wider than goalposts. It’s
Early for a weekend. They
Smell like eggs and ale and strawberry vape.
They’re here to twat each other
In the name of sport. But first a
Catch up, how are yous,
Kisses on cheeks before kick off.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Not knowing what to do with himself
he peeled off his skin like a wet suit,
gave it a shake, and watched the dust
and crumbs and fluff sprinkle off
like sand and salt from beach days
he always promised her they’d have.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The tarmac is hard enough
to remind your hips they are alive.
Surprise surprise, they scream,
you didn’t take care of the muscles
that drag you through the day.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Mondays are pretty quiet in here
but the Morris dancers arrive at 10pm.
That’s a poem. She bought £285 worth of wine
without telling me and each bottle was the same.
That’s a poem. The curry house closed down.
That’s a poem. I was sat against the radiator
texting dad eating a scotch egg. That’s a poem.
I went to the Google offices 10 years ago
and left with 12 Cheesestrings in my pocket.
That’s a poem. Graeme died. That’s a poem.
She reads a book at work but not a good one
so it doesn’t matter when she’s pulled away
and asked to pour a pint. That’s a poem. Jim died.
That’s a poem. There’s a crack in the floorboard
that no-one will ever notice, but when they do
they’ll wonder how we keep going every day
when everything breaks, it always breaks. A dog
walked into the pub alone. That’s a poem.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Her seat was empty, unless
you take into account the smells of meals
he’d cooked her over the years:
vegetarian meatballs, three bean chilli,
chorizo and red onion on seeded toast;
the fingernail marks gripping
on to the arms during her son’s favourite
horror film; the decades old milk stains;
gossip stitched into the upholstery; grief
deep in the cushions. Her seat was empty
until it wasn’t.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The clown was chucking
buckets of fake water:
chip shop chip-sized confetti
made of cheap tin foil.
The front row gasped
loud enough for a boy
at the back of the circus
tent to start sweating.
It didn’t matter what
the usher or his mother
said, the water was
razor blades and he
needed to tell someone
what he saw.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The sun was doing its job this afternoon.
A man walked past us holding two hacksaws.
He had grey hair, almost as silver
as the blades in his hands,
and a pair of legs on a mission. He didn’t
slice us up into a million pieces
because it was the kind of day
he didn’t slice us up into a million pieces.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

but all of the children’s names are alliterative –
Zoe Zebra, Candy Cat, Pedro Pony,
Danny Dog, Suzy Sheep, Freddy Fox,
Rebecca Rabbit (her little brother Richard),
Kylie Kangeroo, Gerald Giraffe,
Molly Mole, Mandy Mouse, Wendy Wolf,
Emily Elephant (her little brother Edmund),
Belinda Bear, Delphine Donkey – all except
for Peppa’s little brother George.
He’s never referred to as George Pig. Just George.
He gets laughed at for saying words wrong,
being rubbish at hide and seek, wanting a balloon
when everyone else wants an ice cream.
The universe is different for George. He gets told
dinosaurs don’t grow on trees, silly, but digs
a hole and plants a fucking T-Rex anyway.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The dentist’s waiting room needs
a water dispenser, a copy of Yachting Monthly,
a couple of clean chairs, a new ceiling tile,
a set of working speakers and a playlist,
a Plaque’s all, folks! poster on the exit door,
a dart board, a pizza vending machine,
a juggler, a lion, a snow storm, a tornado,
a gaping hole in the floor.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He’s had a tough day
and asks if I mind him joining me.
He sits down and rubs his forehead,
his fingers wet sponges
soothing the chassis of a 4 x 4.
I’d rather not talk about it,
he says, unprompted, so we remain
strangers sharing a chunk of the afternoon.
His first pint goes and he tells me
he’s no good at exams and today
he was forced to take one in a conference centre
for a security job he’s been trusted to do
for the last 20 years. Sorry, mate, he says.
You don’t want to hear about
marauding terrorist attacks and defibrillators.
The biscuits they had were good though.
I put my book down. He buys me a pint.

© Carl Burkitt 2023