Toothbrush, you deserve a plaque.
Morning (noon when I’m hungover) and night
you’re always there to protect me.

If you had a mouth you’d be one of those legends who’d actually speak up and tell me
when I have something in my teeth.

Remember when you fished out that popcorn kernel that got stuck in one of my molars
at the very start of Avengers: Endgame?
What sweet relief it was to see you back home.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Admit it, you hate my fingers.
We weren’t made for each other.

ABC is not as easy as 123 for me.
Don’t get me started on EFG.

You lean against the living room bookshelf
keen to tell your stories.
Keen to make the most of your notes.
Keen for your strings to sing.

I’m not your man
but I know someone who can.
And when you’re made to feel at home
that’s something we’ll have in common.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

You are the last thing I see at night and
the first thing I see in the morning.

Curtains, you beautifully grey bastards,
I love you. You stop the outside coming in.

You absorb the rays
to protect my sensitive skin,
you blend the days into the next days.

You let me do that naked dance
and open up when you’re ready to.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Cold bathroom tap, you’re pretty cool.
You make quite the splash
of a first impression every morning.

You tell my face the sun’s alive again.

Remember that time I was sick on you?
And then used you to clean it off you?

I wish I was as self sufficient as you,
as chilled under pressure.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I’m alive with you in my hand,
mug with the pig on the side.

Your mud on my lips is the shit
your pink-hipped friend would kill to roll in.

It’s wicked, ancient Red Bull,
my tongue loves dancing inside you.

Two fingers through your handle
flickers my calves like candles.

I’m alive with you in my hand,
mug with the pig on the side.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Take it easy, sofa. Put your feet up.
You’ve had a hard week’s work
taking my weight off.

Stretch your arms,
replump your cushions,
take the night for you.

Ground yourself. Scan your frame,
feel your feet on the old floorboards.

Have a catch up with the telly,
tell each other things you’d
rather not when we’re around.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Cactus, you spiky sod,
sitting there all dry and prickly.

I see you, crusty cucumber with fangs,
S&M dildo, nature’s sand paper.

I see you, acting all hard,
smoking at the back of the bus
thinking water’s for the weak.

I see you, leaning towards the sun,
clearing your throat, dreaming
of grey clouds.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Non functioning fireplace, I know how you feel mate.
All dressed up like a night full of tiles
stood static in one place with nothing to say.

Remember when you believed in Santa?
They soon put a stop to that,
stuffed your open mind with bricks
to prevent him sliding in.

They left your safety guard in front of you.
They call it decoration. I call it a temptation
to restart your burning imagination.

© Carl Burkitt 2020