She got him back.
His pram was sitting neatly
in front of the display of chops.
Not to worry, the butcher said.
We knew you’d return.
And she did, her heart punching her chest,
sweat beads gathering like customer eyes
looking at livers and kidneys,
her calf muscles tender and panicked.
I feel my skin most days
looking for things I should be doing,
forgetting the things I believe,
wondering when it will fall off
my bones and drag my memory
to the floor.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Your hair is slicked back
and your cheeks could sell
a second hand car with ease.
People seem to smile
when your face walks
on to a drizzly forecourt.
Your singing voice is a punch
to the lungs.
I think about Janine
pushing you
off the edge of a cliff
and the shape of your laugh
disappearing.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
We don’t sell tea anymore
because people said they hated it.
I’d only ordered chips.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
The road has brand new tarmac,
Riz Ahmed is losing
his hearing in Sound of Metal,
Sainsbury’s stop selling
their veggie rainbow stew,
a baby learns
to bang his head on the floor,
an Italian restaurant closes down,
seven become five,
a goalkeeper stops
turning up.
Things just happen.
Like that.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
We didn’t follow the sign
but I assume it’s where
they get their feathers,
beaks and attitude from
and replacement parts
for their pneumatic necks
and steel for their eyes
and bread and chip tastebuds
and low flying swagger
and puffed out chest
that can’t hide
their overwhelming greyness.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Perhaps
they’re over compensating
for their lack of death.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
One has a fistful of dog turd.
One has a book under their arm
as thick as a Ploughman’s sandwich
from a village pub called something
like The Owl & Ratchet.
One is eating a Calippo like they’re on death row.
One is asking her child to
stop leaning on the glass, stop leaning
on the glass, stop leaning on the glass.
One is up a tree and on the clouds
and in eyes and around the corner.
One is waiting.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
It sits on the back of his head.
It’s not quite bald, but it’s thinning.
I wonder how many hairs fell out
because of his company-sized back
hitting the canvas over and over again.
The spotlights are shining on him right now,
over 50,000 people are cheering his name.
He’s not used to that. For years he was booed
for trying to be good. But today he is,
because the man he’s facing is great
at being bad. I can’t remember
sweating as much as these two for anything.
My back hurts from sitting down all day
and I haven’t replaced
the broken lightbulb behind me.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
A fly lands on your high chair
in a gap between a bean chilli stain
and the juice from a squashed grape.
Your hands are linked together
resting on your lap like a Bond villain.
The fly is bumbling left to right,
left to right, with no purpose.
Neither of you know what you are.
You say the word Look and point
and the fly jumps off the edge
and out the window and you peer
over your shoulder searching for wings.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
When I put you in the water do you wonder
why the rest of your day is so dry?
When your skin has stretched to its full stretch
how will you set fire to the space
between the boxes you need to tick?
I can see the tips of your fingers
poking holes in every full stop,
letting the light swim in to drench
your four walls until they crumble.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
