He walked past me, smelling
like a bloke who washes himself
in good deeds and mint.

His t-shirt looked lucky.
His watch gave up counting away
the time it gets to spend with him.

The tarmac was all too happy
to help him float down the street,
beyond the chip shop he waved at,

the green park he whistled hello to,
the bus stop he saluted and wished
good luck. I find myself thinking

about how few people have the time
to acknowledge each other as we walk by.
Then I remember the stranger

who shouted “You look like Greg James,”
at me recently after a Big Special gig,
“In a proper sexy way, mind”.

Carl Burkitt 2026

You are in a Premier Inn bathroom doing your hair.
You’ve left the door open so you can hear the TV.
I am on the bed wearing my dark blue suit

trousers, my unpolished brown shoes,
my too-tight, white, long sleeve shirt.
I’ve tied my floral tie but I need you

to put my grandad’s cuff links in because
I’m barely coping on my own. I’m trying my best
to remember the names of all the people

I will meet for the first time later. Sertraline
convincing me to trust my small talk for once.
You are desperate to know what Mr Chips is doing.

I tell you his face is floating above some stilettos.
“Head over heels!” you yell, the breeze of
your hairdryer blowing a safe warmth over me.

Carl Burkitt 2026

Bacon has reserved seat 63D
on the 7:09 train to London Euston.
But it won’t sit down. It’s wandering

through the carriage in a cheeky mood,
winking at the businessman pretending
to listen to his Zoom call about projections

for the next financial year. It’s whistling
up the nostrils of the snoring mum clinging
on to one chance of uninterrupted sleep.

It’s using its hands to mimic reeling in a fishing rod
in the direction of the starving vegetarian.
Bacon does not care it’s a Thursday.

“Let’s be having you!” it yells, thrusting its hips
to the rhythm of Hakuna Matata.
 
Carl Burkitt 2026

Broccoli. Egg fried rice.
Orange squash. Boiled rice.
The smell of freshly cut grass.
Mushroom fried rice.

He’s listing the things he likes
most “in the whole entire world”.
She’s looking at him like he’s not there
scrolling on her phone under the pub table.

He’s looking at her like she is
broccoli. Egg fried rice.
Orange squash. Boiled rice.
The smell of freshly cut grass.
Mushroom fried rice.

Carl Burkitt 2026

Erling Haaland takes a foam football to bed
with him. He calls it his ’round teddy bear’
and shoves it under his left armpit when he climbs 

under his duvet. When he brushes his teeth
in his blue and white star pyjamas, he decides
what he wants his dreams to be about: 

“Scoring a goal with his bum”
“A family of giraffes running in a field”
“Remembering I’m the best in the world”

Carl Burkitt 2026

I’m in Camden
watching a man

eat Ben and Jerry’s
Phish food ice cream

with a paint brush.

(Now read again but from the bottom up*)

*Only joking, but that’s how confused I was watching it.

Carl Burkitt 2026

He’s so cool
with his expensively clean,
over-sized silver wristwatch
and Peachy Keen flavoured
Monster energy drink.

He’s so cool,
perfectly postured
with precisely positioned messy hair,
swearing between Hula Hoop bites.

He’s so cool
with his feet up on the train seats.

He’s so cool
with wireless headphones in his ears,
telling his cousin how
he’s “slaying half term”.

Carl Burkitt 2026

He’s recently moved to the North
and doesn’t have a friend to call his home.

I listen to his Australian accent
explain how his son is only three weeks old,
how his girlfriend is yet to fly to England,
how the streets here rain with loneliness.

I offer umbrella-words of comfort
about how strangers smile at you up here,
how landlords and shopkeepers
remember your name up here,
how the sun will surprise you up here.

His accent melts into American
and he tells me his name is Mac.
Sesame seeds grow on his now bready head
and his face is lettuce and tomatoes.

I wake up, frustrated
this poem is just a stupid dream,
and plan to worry about Mac forever.

Carl Burkitt 2026

The train station guard
(is that what he’s called?)
has a Valentine’s rose stuffed

in a hole in his sunrise yellow hi-vis.
I swoon. He nods, and tells my son
to stop “prancing” on the platform.

Carl Burkitt 2026

This is line one
This is line two
This is line three
[This is a line break]
This is the start of the second stanza
Where the poem notices something quirky
About the street I am standing in
[This is a line break]
And these are the last three lines
That relate that quirky street to me
Or my son to make me look good

Carl Burkitt 2026