I saw the sign in the library window
promoting homemade lasagne for £2.50
and I wondered if I still had a head.
I was too tired to imagine
book pages made of pasta, words shaped
like mincemeat or cubed aubergine.
Never judge a meal by it’s cover charge,
or something. I don’t know.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

My eyes tell the mirror they’re older
than they are and the glass whispers
to look somewhere else, cook an egg,
paint the clouds with a made up colour,
learn to tap your fingers and feet
to different beats, pretend your comb is
a harmonica, be a boat, swim
in your sleep, write a joke on a receipt
and hide it in your wallet, pickle some gherkins, wash your hands with mud,
tell someone something, wear fluffy socks,
open the curtains, crack your neck loudly,
watch Bob Mortimer standing in a river
inventing sentences that need jotting down.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I roll up towels now,
like sausages I don’t eat.
I stack coasters
like fading pound coins
on a soggy bar runner.
I look in the mirror after eating.
I look left and right again and again,
over-pack for weekends,
text when I arrive safely.
There is a pair of socks
in my drawer greyer than
Eeyore’s morning porridge
with holes on the heels.
I still wear them. It’s nice
to feel where my feet are going.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I’ll have the same again
and I want you to call me a Wanker.
Be a pedant. Laugh at the way
I hit the 1 instead of the 20.
Tell me when my toe is poking
over the improvised beer mat oche.
Point out the typo
on the subtitles of the football.
My body is a hand
in the wrong glove most days.
I don’t want to ache anymore,
so rub insults over my pink skin
in the way only you are allowed.
Tap me on the shoulder.
Kill me with your words.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

You should see the chips
javelining their way to the fryer,
pole vaulting into newspaper,
front crawling to bellies and beyond.
You should see the chips:
gold medals on dinner tables,
a bit of weekly structure,
something for people to talk about.
You should see the chips:
years of hard work,
pride on street corners,
a brief moment of I can do it.
You should see the chips:
they were just a packet of chips.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

You walk like you are Mr Steps Freely,
the inventor of walking.
Hips roll, knees bend, shin bones
point to the mountains
and toes curl like like Quavers.
I will never stand in your way.
You shovel Veggie Sticks into your mouth
as if your face needs a friend.
There will be a day you look back at us
unsure if we’ll stand in your way.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

People do what they want
or don’t care about anything
or don’t have the time
or get preoccupied
or get lost in space
or are melting on the inside
or simply try their best.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

They’re talking about the width of the doors.
They’re talking about the box for the lights.
They’re talking about Every bloody year.
They’re talking about cold turkey sandwiches,
the price of goose fat, the smell of Burger King.
They’re talking about socks and sherry
and the smell of Boxing Day grass.
They’re talking about that bloke’s shoes.
They’re talking about hydration.
They’re waving at a toddler standing
in the way. They’re talking
about next year and doing it all again.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Traffic lights are too high up
for the invisible driver to spot.
It doesn’t matter, there a fewer cars
than dinosaurs in Christmas jumpers
on the street right now. The remote control
monster truck is red and orange like fire
or the centre of a toddler’s eyeball.
A scooter with a middle aged man
slugs its way toward the park.
Morning! his mouth tries
as the clock in the top left of our video call
to a pair of surprise Jack in a boxes
says Afternoon.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Keep running. Get your knees
up past your ears. Punch thick air.
Breathe in through your nose
and out of your mouth. Let the tarmac
know you are there. Show the buses
you are made from metal and fuel.
Tell your skin it is lucky
to be wrapped around you. Run,
whatever that means to you.

© Carl Burkitt 2021