Shuttle bus, combine harvester, classic limousine,
pogo stick, kit car, bubble car, open top bus,
longwall shearer, articulated dump truck,
rigid dump truck, giant tractor, stretch limousine,
you find them all and point at them on the page
when asked like a magician
and reverse through the room
on your feet saying beep, beep, beep
until you trip and hit the ground.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

His best mate isn’t with him.
No one is saying Dead
because dogs never truly leave this pub.
Not one pork pie has been eaten today
without remembering the night
that golden boy retrieved six for himself
from the fridge when no one was looking.
The sound of his claws tap dancing on floorboards
are in all of our ears when new pups strut in.
The silence of the water bowl
is louder than a bark at a New Year’s firework.
The bloke is letting people ask him how he’s doing.
He nods, the ghost of a lead tugging
him towards more than OK, thanks.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Tractor Ted is not big enough for a buck rake
but is allowed to help squash the grass.
His square, green face is concentrating
on the job in hand, pushing every blade
down with animated precision. His smile
is drawn on by a human we’ll never meet
but it is as real as your tightening muscles,
twisting wrists and stamping feet
in rhythm to the background music.
You point like you invented the wheel.
You are alive and have invited your body
along for the ride.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Mud brown walking boots
sit at the end of enjoyed-blue jeans beneath
a jacket like a packet of highlighter pens.
The lollipop man waves at me
and the road isn’t this road anymore,
it’s the one miles away
running alongside my primary school.
I want to tickle his dog’s tummy
but I am eight and afraid of talking
to anything I don’t know, so I cross the road
and nod until I’m in my mid thirties.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The words are written on a tote bag
hanging on her left shoulder.
Her dress swings as if there’s a breeze.
She has pogo stick legs
and the eyes of someone who has looked
under every stone. There are no nooks
or crannies in this town without her fingerprint.
She pores over the menu with purpose,
there’s not enough time for a Usual.
A stranger walks in and she talks
like someone who’s had too many phone calls
late at night, when the vibration is sudden enough
to find a home in your bones.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s playing with a yo-yo, unironically. The string
stretches down past his unbrushed hair
to the three stripes on his Adidas trainers
stood in an appropriately wonky angle.
My word, he’s good at the yo-yo. His mates
don’t even acknowledge it anymore,
it’s like he’s got another limb.
None of them are asking how long
it’s taken him to reach this level. They’re not
shouting trick requests like Around the World
or Walk the Dog. He whistles before using
his free hand to carry a latte to his lips. His friends
talk about homework and biscuits
because they think magic stopped existing.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s leaning against the bollard
next to the burger bar, the place that takes
breakfast orders from 10am to 2pm but say
if you order after 2pm they’ll take your money
but you won’t get your burger.
He’s chatting to his phone
in a language we don’t understand.
We hear the word ‘banana’ and you smile
and he waves and he tells me
he gave you a banana last week.
He goes back to talking to his phone
and a lorry drives backwards and beeps
and your arms dance up and down
like the sun disappearing and appearing.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

You walk into a room OH WOW
You see a sparrow out the window OH WOW
There’s a cornflake on the floor OH WOW
Is that a bus? OH WOW
I am wearing one sock OH WOW
It’s another day OH WOW
Clouds and pigs and raisins exist OH WOW
You fall into a wall OH WOW
Paolo Nutini is playing OH WOW
Without thinking you climb into the skin
of anyone around you OH WOW
There’s a bin lorry OH WOW

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Popeye
will slurp
spinach,
send emails,
put his slippers on,
change the lightbulb,
complete a jigsaw or two,
flick on the History channel,
eat some peanuts, drink tea,
go for a walk, look at leaves,
worry about the thoughts
in his head, talk about it,
potter in the garden,
feed the creatures,
sit down
have a
nap.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Bloody hell, just collect sticks mate.
Save them from the mud. Drag them
through coffee shops and supermarkets.
Pile them high in your porch; make it
difficult for anyone to find their shoes.
Give it some welly. Make your walks longer.
Don’t apologise. Get more sticks.
Make them dragons. Hug the dragons. Make them swords. Kill the dragons.
Throw them through the sun and yell
I AM STEVE BACKLEY.
Talk to your sticks, mate. Give them names.
Ask them what they’re working on. Ask them
how they’re doing, even when they look sad.

© Carl Burkitt 2022