He’s never said a good word.
He’s never had a shower.
He’s never grown a beard.
He’s never been on a bus.
He’s never whistled.
He’s never lost his keys.
He’s never had keys.
He’s never been drunk.
He’s never read a headline.
He’s never eaten bread and cheese.
He’s never said a bad word
and let it curdle in his brain
until he’s a puddle of custard in bed.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I used to enjoy watching you
at a family buffet: casually entering
from the opposite entrance to everyone else,
gently observing the sausage rolls
on one perfectly balanced foot
like an inquisitive good cop.
Once they passed inspection
you’d scoop three on to your plate
and move down the trestle table line up
repeating the process with the crisps,
the scotch eggs, the quiche, the nuts, etc.
After a hard minute’s work, satisfied
you’d covered every inch of the scene,
you’d plod back to your chair
hiding the evidence of a ham sandwich.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Your head looks like Zinedine Zidane’s.
You have no socks on your feet,
showing off the softest touch.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I’m learning
to sleep
on the edge,
creating
space
for when you
decide to
jump in
and tell us
about everything
you’re scared
of.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

After Terrance Hayes

Let me begin again. We were
a couple of boiled eggs looking for a soldier,
a determined collection of crumbs
who knows what they want. Let me begin again.
We were ducks. Let me begin again.
We ordered vegetarian duck and chose a film
to sleep to. Let me begin again. We never met.
I stayed in the past wearing unopened skin
but you still had hands the size of diggers
scooping voices into your ears. Let me
begin again. You offered me some cake.
Let me begin again. You offered me
some lemon drizzle cake.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I’m listening to an interview
with Kasper Schmeichel
about high performance
and winning the Premier League
and he’s still my age
and his hands are massive
and his head is handsome
and his accent is dreamy
and you’re still not here.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

In modern professional wrestling
fans prefer cheering the bad guys.
They say the good guys are not relatable.
They say the good guys are bland.
They say the good guys are not cool.
Last week I saw a customer in Sainsburys
get down on his hands and knees
and pull the tins of tomato soup
from the back of the shelf to the front
so no else had to go to the trouble.
When he stood up, his muscular puffed chest
was bedazzled in a Spandex leotard
and thrash metal blared down the aisle.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

After Tishani Doshi

A 50 pence piece, a fingernail sized pebble,
the wiggle of a worm, an unopened pot of Pringles,
an outstretched top corner save, Moria Stuart,
pickle on a Tuesday, my son’s future voice,
a splinter of a perfectly boiled egg shell,
a pint of cold water on an empty summer stomach,
the holes in running shoes, gherkins, pigs,
learning how the perfect high five occurs
when you look at your partner’s elbow.
The grass was hiding things that get you through.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Fortunately,
my skin is the green ink
my wife is drawn to at lunchtime.
My bones are the crisps
that once lived in closed, greasy foil.
I am open.
WALKERS is a word I no longer need.
My eyes are floating barcodes
scanning for shades of grey.
The miniature jagged edges
are my baby teeth
dripping
for something to chew on.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I think I can only leave,
I don’t think I can end it.

© Carl Burkitt 2021