I’m on my pogo stick in the street
watching him reverse his car
off the driveway next to their home
to the front door. He does it in spring, summer,
autumn, and winter, to give
the love of his life the shortest walk
possible from the porch to the passenger seat.
I watch her smile when the rain doesn’t get her,
the heels of her shoes don’t hurt her,
the weight of bags in her hands evaporates.
A simple act, I think, a way
to open your heart to everyday romance.
I’m stood on the street, two decades later.
He’s reversed his car from
the driveway next to their home to the front door
and he tells me it’s simply because you can’t
open the passenger door
when it’s parked on the driveway next to their home.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The sign on the motorway has snapped
into a lanyard around the neck of a man
at a work conference holding a blueberry muffin.
It was the last one on the complimentary
breakfast table and he feels terrible
for taking it. He is determined to enjoy it
with a builder’s tea once the drink’s queue
has died down. He doesn’t know anyone
in here. The eyes of strangers are headlights
travelling together, knowing where they’re going,
unblinking. A woman, lost with a pain au chocolat,
floats towards Chester. She asks him how he’s doing
and he finds himself talking about McDonald’s
hash browns and the magic of cat’s eyes.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Her hands are in the chest
desperate to squeeze
the life back into it.
Scripted lips remind her to
Massage the heart, gently
and she does, like the mouth
of a lioness carrying her cub
by the scruff of the neck
as it purrs against
the teeth of safety.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

They’re talking about his pub of the year award,
how every chair has a bum on it, the way
the new year has done wonders to his skin,
how the Manchester air will drop to minus four
tonight, how Tom has de-icer in his satchel,
how the pints are falling easy for a Monday.
The landlord’s football team lost 5-0
at the weekend to the alien town I’m from.
The regulars are talking,
doing what they can not to mention it.
The landlord says he doesn’t care
and is winking at me while they spend more
in conversational sympathy.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I need to know what it’s been touching.
If a spirit’s fingers can get filthy in the afterlife
then you’d think they could feel paper towels,
maybe it would be scarier seeing them float
above a public toilet’s sink.
Is fried chicken greasier in hell?
Are doughnuts stickier in heaven?
I need to know what it’s been touching,
but it’s nice knowing manners never die. 

© Carl Burkitt 2023

His mobile phone rings.
He takes it off the Friday lunchtime
pub table, clears his throat,
and puts it to his ear. Hello, yeah
not bad thanks… just out for a little walk
at the moment. Yeah, no, you’re right,
it’s not that windy, no, yeah, it is windy,
but…my phone has new technology
that cuts out any background sound…
His three mates start blowing
from their mouths, whistling
to mimic the sound of a breeze.
Oh, you can hear the wind now? Hmm,
maybe it’s broken, yeah, speak soon boss.
His cheeks go sunset red,
his mates’ laughter weathers the storm.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The envelope
drops on to the endless pile.
My fingers wave to the names
lying in wait to hear happy birthday,
happy new year, how are you?,
we should meet up soon, please reply,
where have you been?, are you OK?,
this is your final warning,
congratulations on the birth of your baby.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

It’s at my feet,
gobbling the filth
falling
from my key areas,
trying not to recycle
the greasy thoughts
dropping
from my head.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I am asleep
on a train snoring
and strangers are laughing
and I am awake
and I laugh with the strangers
and the strangers laugh louder
and the snoring starts again
and the laughter stops
and I float out of the window
like a ghost with no ticket.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I’m reading a book
because I like reading books
and in this book
I am reading about a man
who is reading a book
because he likes reading books
and I’m struggling to find any flaws in him
and I cannot work out the struggle he has
to overcome and he doesn’t seem to care
that he eats too many crisps
and how his hair doesn’t sit the way it should
or the fact his shoelaces have broken
because he can always order new ones
and I’m now on page 36 and he hasn’t
blamed the death of a stranger
on the fact he got on the wrong bus that time.

© Carl Burkitt 2023