He couldn’t believe the reductions of the fish
in Waitrose yesterday. £1.99 for a sea bass
the size of your forearm, 99p salmon steaks
as thick as a front door, haddock
as wide as his late wife’s smile only 80p.
He ended up handing over a twenty
to the checkout guy and played a game of Jenga
trying to fit it all into the freezer.
He gave the haddock to his neighbour
because she likes haddock
but he’s keeping the rest, just in case
a special occasion arrives one day.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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

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