It’s a perfect sphere
made of 32 intricately stitched hexagons.
There are 12 highlighter orange triangles and
the word Mitre is printed in football boot black.
The M is exactly one inch tall.
I cannot see a single blemish
and it’s deflated 25% through lack of use.
I often think about the man
in the writing workshop who said
You could improve on the little details
and my thumbs are 17 years old
shaking a crumpled sheet of A4 paper
with a scribbled blue biro speech
next to a newly planted tree you’ll never see.
I have no idea how many students are there
but I think the German teacher is wearing shoes.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I have been paid for my services
and I get letters from banks
and someone thought I was safe
enough to marry
and a baby trusts my face
and when I was 18 in New York
I used an entire disposable camera
taking photos of No Dumping road signs.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I’ve never said Goodbye to a postman.
I’ve said Cheerio and Take care
and the odd See ya letter
under my breath,
but I’ve never said Farewell forever.
I’ve never stood at the door
and thanked a postman for his service,
for asking how my wife’s doing,
for remembering our son’s name,
for hiding precious packages in safe places,
for being a smiling reminder
that the world still exists.
Today is Saturday
and Colin works in the week,
so I’ve never said Goodbye to a postman.
I’ll have to think of another way
to get in touch.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Socks and Work Stuff
Coat Hangers and Pyjamas
Umbrellas and Fairy Lights
Today we are boxes,
a pair of lost kids
lined up in a register
of temporary nicknames.
Ornaments and Plasticine Heads
Photo Frames and Harry
Llama Blanket and Miscellaneous
On Sunday
these unlikely tag teams
will split up throughout a new home,
smiling across the room.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

and your fingers are shaped
like the fizzy cola bottles
I’m eating to feel
like the child I used to be.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

My ironing board lost its job
about 12 months ago.
We pass each other in the flat:
me in three day old jogging bottoms
and slept in wrestling t-shirt,
it in its creaseless grey uniform,
bolt up right against the wall,
as if nothing’s happened.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The roadside banner said
PRINTI G SOLUTIONS
and I nodded
with the full force
of my knackered skull.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

There’s something
comforting about
lampposts having
individual numbers
marked on them,
as if someone, somewhere
has things organised.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

and the tiles around the checkout
were an Olympic swimming pool of hummus.
Tucked behind the frozen aisle
cried a thousand sniffless snow people,
while 60 hungry horses stacked themselves
on top of each other in a single bay
at the back of the indoor car park.
Outside, the day became night
and the man could see perfectly,
in the distance, a gathering of customers
high-fiving over the trimmings
of a Sunday roast together.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I knew I was dead
when a van pulled up
outside my flat
and the driver watched me
washing up my dinner plate
as he typed my every move
on his British Gas iPad.

© Carl Burkitt 2021