I think I live near a milkman.
There’s a float parked
outside our flat most nights
with the word Milkman on the side.
I forget that people have lives.
I forget that people boil eggs,
brush their teeth, cut their toenails.
I forget that people whistle.
I forget that people have skin.
I forget that people sleep
in beds next to people they love
or people they hate or people
they’ve just met or no one.
I forget that people are milkmen.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

You’ve got the chat of a taxi driver.
Roundabout freckles dotted
up the A-roads of your arms.
Your forehead fills a rear view mirror
like conversation starters
in an A-Z Map of putting people
at ease. I could sit behind you
anywhere, counting the times
you ask me an open question,
recommend documentaries
about the way machines were built,
mispronounce the names of footballers.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There are endless empty jars
in our cupboards under the counter
where the four-slice toaster lives.
They are the headstones
of raspberry jams, jalapeños,
gherkins, olives and a yogurt
too fancy for me. I think
about pickling eggs or onions
and the smell of mustard on a pork pie
designed for sharing on my dad’s plate
opposite the snooker on a Sunday night.
Maybe I’m brave enough now
to put a pickled egg in a packet
of cheese and onion crisps.
Maybe I’m brave enough now
to stop thinking.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

His trouser legs are elongated SPAM,
the helmet on his head is half a lime.
He’s tried the pork pie, the veggie pie
and the vegan balti pie, all with different chutneys.
He’s here today from Stoke. The one metre long
battery from his E-bike is sitting on the table
between us, charging. He tells me
he bought it on a whim before Christmas.
The worst £1,400 I’ve ever spent.
He takes three separate sips of his ale tapas.
It’s helped me see the world though.
When he leaves the pub in an hour
he will tell me he has a school reunion to go to
and has nothing to talk about.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I saw you in the shops the other day
I saw you buying a pizza the other day
I saw you crossing the road the other day
I saw you scratching your head the other day
I saw you standing alone the other day
I saw you thinking the other day
I saw you melting the other day
I saw you wondering why the sky
bothered waking up the other day
I saw you I saw you I saw you I saw you
I saw you breathing and trying and sweating
and moving and trying the other day

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I would look at houses
on American TV shows
and get excited when
the number on the door
would be over a thousand.
I’d think about the possibilities
behind each one, the different
smells tumbling out of that many
kitchens, the families looking
out for each other, the endless
wallpaper designs, the music
made and played, the popcorn
and movie nights, the high-fives,
the lifting up and listening.
Now I just shudder at the thought
of the street’s WhatsApp group.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They’ve decided not to order,
it’s a bit too late for their tummies.
How do you learn to sleep
with your nose resting on your dreams?

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There’s a football player printed
four times the size of him telling me to buy a razor.
The pixels of his skin look like a patch of leather
we used to kick around in the garden. Once,
we took the flesh of a ball off and pumped
the sad sack inside as far as it could go.
Watch your eyes in case it pops, my dad said.
We looked the other way and kept pumping.
The thing bag grew to half of me
and we punted into a tree. We couldn’t
reach it, so grabbed a rake and watched it pop
until our eyes blinked us to today.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

All the dads are in the cafe;
weekend smiles, weekday eyes.
A lot’s changed in seven days,
the rocket ship in yellow leggings
doesn’t like tiffin any more.
She prefers a chocolate cornflake cake
smashed into a billion pieces.
She’s learned how to drink
through a straw, say the word window,
put her hands in the air, how to stand
up on the table. The planet she’s from
is trying to keep up, roll with the punches,
allow his bones to sit in a chair
that isn’t in front of a desk.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

A torn open box of Shreddies, a lidless
bottle of whole milk, a forgotten raisin,
the smell of tired toast crumbs, the sound of teeth
meeting a metal spoon, water sitting
in a stolen pint glass, a smiling banana skin,
a patient pair of Velcro trainers, a bored wallet,
a bottle of sun cream and an egg yolk cap
with the name of a sunrise written on the label.

© Carl Burkitt 2022