He sits down
on his coffee shop chair
and the crack of his knees
propels itself out of his mouth.
It’s impossible not to turn around
and check he hasn’t just been
shot through the stomach.
He nods. Thumbs up.
The war cry of the elderly,
he says, raising his sausage wrap
to the ceiling like a pistol.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
I catch myself thinking about you at night, and the way you remember the key moments of people in your life. The way you celebrate their achievements. The way you give any room what it wants; light, dark, finger food, a performance. You’re holding a can of IPA in a kitchen neither of us own, listing the things you think you are made of: red blots on cheeks, t-shirts that don’t fit, hair that won’t stop receding. I catch myself thinking about you at night, and the way your beard is a nest for anyone who needs a safe place to rest.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Every Tuesday, two or three or four or five of you sit across two or three or four or five separate tables to tackle the quiz in the back of the paper I’ve never seen the name of. Incorrect answers bounce around the room like a squash ball wondering where to go. Natalie Imbruglia. Chairman Mao. Death of a Salesman. Jaffa Cakes. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. The hunt for double figure points remains alive, the sound of laughter to every failure keeps you coming back, the chance for something to talk about.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
He’s in the pub testing
a new productivity app
before going across the road
to watch City in the Champions League.
The forefinger of his right hand
is darting from peanut bag
to the skip ad button
on the YouTube tutorial
playing on his iPad.
He’s chatting to his wife
through noise cancelling headphones.
His feet are tapping
to music only he can hear.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
His road bike is suspended
on a skinny plinth on his driveway,
the perfect height
to slip a tea towel through the spokes,
hold it at either end,
and slide it left and right
like he’s flossing a crocodile.
His calves look yummy,
toffee apples below the rear of his knees.
His eyes are soft boiled eggs,
his fingers are soldiers,
morning doesn’t mean a thing.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Paul Hollywood
looks directly
down the lens
when he says it.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
A funeral wake has walked into the pub,
50 or so legs in black Tuesday trousers
march from the front door to the immediate family
to the bar to an empty chair. I make myself
smaller in the corner, reply to small talk
with the staff about their range of chutneys.
I don’t think scotch bonnet jam existed
when you do. I order a pot and wish
it packed a stronger punch.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
I’m looking through a door
into a pub’s store cupboard.
I can see piles of raring-to-go peanuts,
queues of patient WKD Blues,
rows and rows of lager
not even bothering getting to know each other.
I wonder if the man plonking Budweiser’s
into the plastic green carriers,
the kind that hold 10 bottles at a time,
has ever called the room his pantry.
The fruit ciders are scattered on shelves
like memories of mixed berries
on countryside bushes.
The man plonking Budweiser’s
into the plastic green carriers
kicks the door shut with his heel
to show a sign saying PRIVATE.
Maybe that explains my heart rate
or the ache of feeling uninvited.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
The caterpillar and the penguin
have gone for a walk across the room.
The caterpillar has chosen to go on its side,
feeling the carpet rub against its cheeks.
The penguin is following the rules:
left flipper, right flipper, left flipper, right flipper.
The caterpillar can jump now,
it’s on the bookshelf pretending to eat
a stuffed monkey. The penguin keeps walking.
The two-year-old hand around the caterpillar
spins it 360, tells it to say hello to a fireman,
offers it a vegetable ice cream.
The penguin keeps walking, gets grabbed
off its ageing operator, taken off course,
thrown into the middle of a wooden train set,
forced to adapt and see the world again.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
In the kitchen, thinking
about the way ducks float,
the strength of ants,
how beard hair knows
not to reach the eyes.
If giraffes need camouflage
it’s a shame they grow so tall.
Lunch has compiled itself.
The hob is off. Am I here?
The hand slips, pepper
sneezes over egg yolks,
changes the course of a day.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Carl tells tales 