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

and I am opening a packet of snack raisins
with my teeth while my toddler tells me
my flies are undone.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

People are sat around the dinner table,
their plates stained with gravy
and scraps of veg from the final helping
they knew deep down they didn’t need.
They’ve pulled their Christmas Crackers
and are reading daft jokes,
placing primary coloured hats
on their heads, playing with their toy prizes.
I’m with them on a chair by the internal
garage door holding on to my prize:
not a jumping plastic frog, metal puzzle,
miniature tweezers, or giant paper clip,
but a £20 British Home Stores voucher.
No one believes me, and no one will ever
believe me. I bought some new grey slippers.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s been up since 4am
flogging fish at Billingsgate Market.
It’s 7pm and his fingers have the strength
to beckon us on to the road.
He doesn’t want us to slip
on the skin of ice that’s covering the path.
You are in my arms. He says he likes your hat
and you wave and he waves and says
he has a daughter a year older than you.
His other two kids are teenagers
and the age gap is wonderful for babysitting
like last night when he danced at a gig
with his wife until the morning arrived
with the smell of fresh fish and opportunity.
He tells you he’s off for a long bath
and you ask if he will play with any toys.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Wooden barstools
stand like photocopiers
watching colleagues
through spring,
summer, autumn,
placing bets
on which bum
will sit.

© Carl Burkitt 2022