We get in the car
like it’s a perfectly natural thing,
metal carrying brains and blood
past fields of cows eating grass.
There’s a horse, thick-legged
and ready to run in its steel shoes,
like it’s a perfectly natural thing.
Tarmac is no place to land.
We dance on cigarette machines,
fall asleep in public toilets.
We get jobs, move town, get hobbies.
We plant trees and write poems,
like it’s a perfectly natural thing.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Paw Patrol are looking after you
this afternoon. Potato waffles have too
much salt and sugar for little hearts.
You are collecting falls on your forehead.
You’ve never met a giraffe in the flesh.
You’ve never met a tractor in the flesh.
You’ve never met some people in the flesh.
I don’t know why condensation appears.
I mean, I do, but I don’t really, not enough
to answer your questions about mould.
You are here. I am here. We are here.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

After John Osborne

The pub was getting busy and he’d been gone
for so long my trousers had gone from jeans
to chinos to jeans again. I didn’t wear
Hawaiian shirts anymore, but flannel checks
then black H&M classic neck t-shirts
then thick jumpers bought for me with confidence.
My hair stopped being short back and sides
and welcomed curls because life can end
at 16 and some things have to be
what they’re supposed to be. He could have walked
in hours ago, floated past the beard he’s never seen,
asked if WKD Blues are still popular,
burst the heads of bar staff with that smile
and bored them about models of Mercedes.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

have ham heads,
broccoli noses,
whips for tongues,
hearts for hands,
nothing to do
but stare.

© Carl Burkitt

He moves with the deliberate precision
of his old man’s old man sliding
his shirt sleeves up his forearm
ready to do the washing up.
Just pop your plate on the side,
you go to bed, I’ve got this.
The curls on his head are thin,
a tangle of wires behind a TV unit.
He pushes toy vans like he knows
where they’re going, confident
he’ll be asked What route did you take?
when he arrives home on a cold Thursday.
He doesn’t have all his teeth
but he doesn’t need them to smile
at the sound of a squeaky hinge
or to tap his hand to the tune in an advert.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

A person with a beard the size of his flat cap
walks out of the grey building next
to the black car holding a bottle of Evian.
He unscrews the cap and pours a touch of water
on to what looks like a neatly folded white shirt.
He dabs the damp garment on to the blemished
roof with a shake of his flat cap and beard.
A stranger appears from around the corner.
The bottle of Evian and emergency rag
hide behind the owner’s back.
The flat cap and beard nod at the stranger.
The stranger nods back. The Porsche says nothing.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There’s a flap on the sugar bowl,
a lid on the bathroom tiles,
a hatch in the side of the TV,
a cover on top of your brain,
a fold on the bananas.
Stand in front of the mirror,
see what jumps out.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Pack it all away:
the death black hoodie,
the boots with duct tape for toes,
the grey beanie tighter than thoughts,
the fingers gloves with no palms,
the pocketless trousers,
the T-shirt with a target on the chest,
the skin begging to feel differently.
Pack it all away, but keep it nearby.
You never know when you’ll need it.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The night is a jaguar’s tail,
too dark to see if the driver has human eyes.
The van is too small for a horse,
too big for a grasshopper or one duck.
We are too far away
to hear any noise from inside.
Can a mouse understand a SatNav?
Cats probably prefer an A-Z map
to show off their skills to stupid hamsters.
The paintwork of the body is tortoise green,
like motorway trees in the day time.
There’s a puppy in the back of our car,
he has two legs, two arms and is daft
enough to think two apes know what’s going on.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I like to pretend I’m not real:
change my accent, comb my hair,
wear trainer socks, tell stories
about the way I’ve been up to no good.
There will be days
people want to listen to the sound
of things falling into place,
the sound of your world relaxing,
the sound of what could always be.

© Carl Burkitt 2022