The ramekins in the gift bag
are jingling like baubles
as we hand them over to the volunteer.
We don’t need them,
just like the man in the leather jacket
observing the saucy section
of the secondhand novels
doesn’t need the polo shirt
he just donated with a John Grisham.
There’s a woman crouching
down at the crockery section by the window
stroking a cake tin like the hand of a lost lover.
Her husband is behind her,
sighing with relief that the running shoes
she just pointed him towards are size 10 and not 11.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The man with nearly zero body fat
wants me to start taking cold showers.
He’s talking about improved circulation,
a reduction in muscle soreness,
pain relief, and lowering my stress levels.
He reckon it will help me sleep,
but I’m too busy watching him
behind my warm phone screen.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Some pubs have people
made of the stuff that built the walls.
Bricks for bones and floorboards for skin.
This place has Geoff who cannot sing.
The crowd has hearts for ears
and they won’t stop beating for him.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

You’re desperate to know the answer
in your high chair opposite the TV.
Bukayo Saka is celebrating an early goal

and I’m thinking, because of the speed
he can travel around the world in one night,
how Santa would be a marauding fullback

or perhaps a holding midfielder
because of his infinite wisdom.
I tell you, actually, he’s quite an old guy

so realistically he’d be a third choice goalkeeper
but you are singing a song to your broccoli.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

You sleep with a face
that hates not being awake.
Your eyelids shift
left and right like the jaw
of someone trying
to cool a hot chip down
in their mouth.
You float on daytime tarmac
like a shark who cannot rest.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

She admires the care and attention
people pay to something they love,
the patience, imagination, and skill
it takes to help dying greatness
have moments of polished joy.
The nurses arrive on Thursdays
for her to watch the show
with a cup of dairy free tea
and take a break from her craft.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The vending machine is
any day of the year,
no packets of pigs in blankets
or slices of bubble and squeak
in sight. The chairs are decorated
with October snot and August
infection cream. Mariah Carey
is the Next Patient buzzer.
A red cheeked elf in Gruffalo PJs
is curled up on Santa’s knackered lap
whispering Christmas adventure
as he spots the tree in the corner
with the NHS bauble.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They stand in rows looking around the room at the meats, the breads, cheeses, the paper plates with reindeer running, fizzy pop, odd jars, name tags, cellophane, lost glitter. They listen to voices making any sound they think they have to make. They wait patiently for hands to escape, to just be themselves.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Three felt dinosaurs. A glass pig.
A glittery slice of pepperoni pizza.
A bodyless penguin. A vegan sausage roll.
A WWE table. A WWE ladder. A WWE chair.
A sprout. A sequin penguin. A pug.
A rainbow star. A non-talking Father Christmas.
A Robin. A jar of soy sauce. Frankenstein’s monster.
A red and white bauble with your name
written in the relief of silver, permanent ink.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They just get on with it:
wearing trousers, sipping mint tea,
eating careless breakfasts,
colour coding spreadsheets,
nodding when spoken to,
not letting dirt sit on their shoes,
rearranging lanyards around their necks.
They just get on with it:
breathing, moving, blinking,
listening, getting out of bed.
They just. Get on with it.

© Carl Burkitt 2022