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

There’s a half eaten apple
in my trouser pocket
covered in spit from a mouth
I would let take a bite out of me.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I want to be
able to ask questions
like you
with the confidence I will not
want to two-foot tackle
my own shin bones
when someone rolls their eyes
to what can’t be undone.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Orange is a determined head.
Purple is slow and steady.
Blue is trying its best.
The other blue does not know the rules.
Red is on the floor torn in half.
Yellow does not want to die.
Green is searching for cheese.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

She told me her name was short
for Evening and I believed her

because she was a night owl
and her eyes were dark and tired.

Every year on her birthday
she said she was 24 again

and tomorrow was Christmas.
I believed her because

her hair was red and green tinsel
and I always felt full in her company.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

If you are reading this
rest assured I tried my best
to make you smile
with my festive out of office,
but the likelihood is
I’m probably back at work
and forgot to turn automatic replies off.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There they go,
the curly lads
who got me through
the cold days. Who’s
that grandad in the mirror,
hairline like a vampire,
refusing to die?

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I’m not sure, he replies, his hair
as silver as his tongue used to be.
His voice cracks on the journey
across their table for two and
his friend refuses to change
the conversation. Nosy pub-goers
and a wannabe writer use every muscle
in their necks not looking.
If your misdemeanours came to light,
would you be ashamed? repeats his friend.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Please do,
says the owner
sipping his stout,
surprised at his
sexy tone.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The man must be an owl.
His body has twisted
180 degrees to face the bar,
empty pint glass in hand,
while his neck and head
keep focusing on the stranger
who joined his table 30 minutes ago.
The man has listened to thoughts
on black ice, the need for more
public bins, the smell of the shop
next door, the price of haddock.
He’s nodded. He’s smiled.
He’s completely contorted.
Am I keeping you? the stranger asks.
It’s Christmas, the man says.

© Carl Burkitt 2022