I miss poems with exclamation marks!
The extravagant kind that tell people
Oh, how the world is alive! and
Your face lives beneath my eyelids!
We’re driving down the motorway!
There has been no delays! It’s dark!
We’re catching up about our last few days
apart and the lampposts down the central
reservation are candles for our feast!

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The blossom’s out.
It’s sitting on trees the way it does
in poems that understand cycles and pink and blossom.
A man in red trousers is riding
his foldable bike at 8.30am one-handed
with six bits of 2×4 over his shoulder
and a Yorkshire Terrier is trotting
past a bakery’s open door like lyrics in song
that understand the moments
of a creature’s day. The grown ups are sitting
around a conference table. The colour of
untouched fruit is in front of them and their
smart casual tops as they desperately
discuss steps to wellbeing.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

When you go to the toilet
you need to lift the door handle up to lock it.
There’s no hot water in the bathroom sink
so got to the kitchen to wash your face.
Avoid that floorboard.
The numbers on the radiator in the spare room
are the wrong way round.
Do not use the light switch on the landing.
Ignore the ghost that looks like every single
mistake I have made while I’ve been awake.
There’s milk in the fridge.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The mornings begin
with birds or tea or in-jokes
between two people who made a promise.
The mornings begin
with a squint and a thumbnail-sized sun
sitting above a house stuffed with friends
made from ancient glitter and fuzziness.
The mornings begin.
The mornings begin
with curtains unsure how heavy they’ll be today.
The mornings begin
with a leafless tree. Dust. A toddler walks in.
The mornings begin.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

My health
couldn’t be bothered to come in today.
It made excuses about traffic and needing
to get its son to childcare and not being
able to find any breakfast and sweating
through every item of clothing it owns
during the death of the night
and I want to listen, to understand, to give it
space let it do what it needs and trust, hope,
it remembers all I have given it.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The bins aren’t taking themselves out again.
The dirty plates haven’t learned how to roll
towards the sink and my socks have no legs.
The day is 72 hours long and my cells need
a large rocket to climb aboard.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Today I clambered
up some steps holding my toddler
in one arm and a tote bag of vegetables
and an umbrella and a water bottle
and two second-hand books in the other.
You never know when your next fall
is planned for you. It wasn’t today,
when the world was in my arms,
but it could always be tomorrow
when I am in his.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Tell it to do one,
think of a witty quip
like the New York detective
you have been watching all week.
Show it your teeth, use them
to growl and finally eat
a thick, toasted cheese sandwich.
Offer it a bite. After all,
you were raised to be polite.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Bags-under-the-eye-grey,
skin with enough friction,
flesh soft like a Sunday.
The Legend. You sit, shaped
like a handgun or a thumbs
up in the middle of the room.
Sweat paints the walls, chest
bones are twice their weight,
cushions wrap themselves
around limbs like a gardener’s
hand lifting a fallen bird from the grass
behind a house from the past, the TV playing
cartoons, the air a roast dinner and the
whisper of your product name. The Legend.
You will never get called a sofa in this flat.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The sun kissed a stranger.
The moon punched a balloon.
A crack between the wall and the doorframe
grew wide enough for a soul to fall in.
A Glaswegian parrot turned up.
The leaves over the road waved
goodbye to each other every morning.
Tarmac gave up.

© Carl Burkitt 2023