and on days like yesterday
it is clearly personal. They don’t want my house
to have poached eggs in the week
and the guy behind the CCTV monitor,
the one who used to smile
when we walked into the shop,
enjoys watching me tut and gently throw
my hands in the air as the shelves I once trusted
now have bagels or multipack crisps on offer.
Everyone else knows where they’re going.
Their clean trainers and jeans fly like the crow
and collect their packs of twelve like it’s easy
and head to the frozen food or vegetables.
They talk to each other. They joke about
weekend plans and roast dinners
and I just want eggs. Half a dozen will do.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

A box of fried chicken is next to the jelly babies.
There is no way of knowing how we got here,
but you will not accept that as an answer.
And neither should you. Let’s go for a walk,
past the peanuts, the shower gel, the eggs,
the sliced bread, the row of illustrated books
and find the pieces of a story we can put together
any way we like.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Of course you are,
in your Gruffalo pyjamas
with your soft rabbit
and toy car transporter
in the other room
sending air emails
with fingers desperate
to discover something new.
Have a good day,
don’t forget to come back
and tell us how
thing could be different.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Of course you are,
sneaking up on us,
sliding across the living room floor
talking about lizards and frogs,
swallowing lunch in one go,
testing out your venom,
wrapping yourself around my chest
tight enough to suck out my air
and remind me to keep going.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I want to strangle whoever invented manners
and scream your name across the aisles
of vegetarian sausages, plain bagels, Marmite,
cloudy lemonade, hash browns, Marvellous Creations,
Pringles, eggs, crumpets, hollandaise sauce,
and I want to scream it as loudly as my chest did
when you introduced yourself back then.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Of course you are,
borrowing deep
into a grubby chest
scooping a hole
where it’s needed.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

who knows a man
who eats dry, non-toasted bagels.
He picks at them
like beige candy floss at a dead fairground.
He’s not a boring man,
says the man I’m talking to,
I actually have a laugh with him.
The silence stands hard between us,
like unsalted butter from the fridge.
How do you eat your bagels? I ask.
I don’t really like them, he says.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He’s been standing in front of the crisps
for far too long, swinging his basket
filled with sausage rolls and energy drinks.
He’s wearing a polo shirt, I think it’s a polo shirt,
what’s a polo shirt? He’s just farted, not loudly,
but strong enough to hit the nostrils with a hint
of yesterday’s lamb curry. He’s at the front
of the queue now struggling to remember
the number of the petrol pump he just used.
I’m holding a litre bottle of spring water
because of my dry throat and I cough,
the man turns around and tells me
to put my hand up to my mouth as he
does nothing but float into a universe
of his own self importance.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

was the white strings
of my son’s favourite easy peeler,
the pants I still don’t wear as an adult,
the teeth jigsaw of your smile,
the reason your body conceded
so many goals for our team:
pithy, brief, clear, short.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He’s put his coaster on top of his beer
as he goes to stretch his legs outside the pub.
An American bar and restaurant’s website
on my phone has the answer
to the unspoken reason why he’s done it, but
I’m fed up with not giving my brain a few minutes
to pretend he wanted to know
what his glass would look like with a flat cap,
protect his ale from thirsty Borrowers,
imagine life as an upside-down man,
let the curious ceiling tiles observe
the artwork printed on the protective square
made from high grammage paperboard
according to a menu printing website
on my phone.

© Carl Burkitt 2023