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

The lollipop people are chatting
about last night’s football match.
The cold snap has not put a stop
to tactical analysis, shared opinions,
compliments of tricky wingers
and the haircut of a defensive midfielder.
It’s genial, too early to imagine
wishing a hard worker lose their job.
Their sticks are two goal posts waiting
for a cross bar. Their fluorescent green coats
are hiding one blue heart and one red heart:
a uniform bridging two sides of the street.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

A halfway line goal in football
gives me hope that some believe in magic
when the world expects a sideways pass.
A halfway line goal in football
gives me hope when the goalkeeper is still
allowed to play next week.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Your ankles are in the coffee shop.
They are as smooth as the ice
underneath the hockey match you’re watching
on your unscratched, white laptop.
You have a hot chocolate,
chin stubble thicker than sticks,
nostrils the size of pucks.
I’m writing in this notebook
desperate to bite your shin bone
to see if you’ll hit me,
if you’ll ask how I’m doing,
if you’ll invite me to join you
and explain the rules of the game.

© Carl Burkitt 2023