She spends her time
walking across thin bits of conversation,
the bits that can suddenly tip you
into a ravine. But she is steady. She likes
the challenge of keeping things balanced,
and reminding him that chins are best
when they remember to stay up.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

wondering how it got there,
what it’s supposed to be doing,
how the horses and cows
appear to enjoy it being around
despite the thoughts splashing
away in its thick skull.
It could have landed anywhere:
the train station, the airport,
the carpark, the seaside,
but here it is in the farm, trying to breathe.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I’ll probably get a bottle of red wine in
and some Shloer depending
what my Google search of his tastes reveal.
I’ll ask him how long it took to regrow
the skin on his back after falling
off his bike on the TV show Superstars.
I’ll ask him who his favourite player was
to have a chitchat to over a cup of tea.
I’ll ask him if he was always confident
wearing his curls or if it took his Dad
telling him that they twist and bend
because his brain is magical soil
to convince him to just let it grow.
I’ll ask him about Hamburg.
I will not say I will love it if we eat them
when I lay a plate of cheese and crackers
in front of us all snuggled up on the sofa.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Three robot arms
is the only answer to the question
how did you carry everything:
football kits, pop-punk albums,
empty crisp packets put back in the cupboard,
lifts from to the train station, lifts to
the train station, new bikes, stolen bikes,
new bikes, twisted ankles, hospital trips,
the weight of being Father Christmas.
Do you remember when I got mustard in my eye?
It must’ve taken the strength of three robot arms
not to laugh and focus on distracting me
from the fire. Three robot arms: one on the left,
one on the right, one in place of your spine.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There’s an advertising placard
at Stockport County’s football ground
that says POTATOES! in big bold letters.
A man has his top off behind the sign
and is encouraging the home fans to squat
to their knees and slowly rise and slowly rise
and slowly rise and WEEEEEEEEEEEEEY!!!!
they jump to the sky with their arms up.
POTATOES! sits underneath their flying feet
and I’ll look at anything to ignore the scoreline.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

You’re trying
to put the leaves back
on the tree they fell from.
You can’t reach, but who cares,
you’re stretching
further than your bones.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s offering a pink and white
striped bag of pick and mix around
to the left, the right, behind, and in front
of his blue chair to fellow home fans.
People up and down the aisle are waiting
for their turn to be passed the sweets,
wondering which they’ll take
and practicing what they will say:
Wonderful stuff! or Just the ticket!
or Thank you kindly, sir! or Get in!
I think a goal might have just been scored,
no one’s watching the game.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The boys look like Jack Grealish,
all calves and curtains. They are
standing around the café toilets laughing,
showing each other videos of people
falling over on their phones. An older man
looks my way and rolls his eyes, folds
his newspaper and slips it under his armpit
to stomp his way toward the door
like a cartoon of older man in a huff.
The squad of Jack Grealishes move aside
and apologise. One of them opens the door.
The old man doesn’t say thank you.

© Carl Burkitt 2022