I typed
Writing prompt into an online search engine
and the first one on the first website said,
Set your story during a month of drought
— whether literal, or metaphorical
and I realised how thirsty I’d been for
at least the last three weeks and how sometimes
I quite literally do nothing to look after myself
even when my body wants me to. So I looked
at the second prompt on the website,
Set your story in a bar that doesn’t serve alcohol,
and I picked up the pint of water on my desk
that had a few bubbles of time floating and I
read the third writing prompt, Write a story
in the form of diary entries, written by someone
who has set themselves a month-long challenge,
and put the glass back down and convinced
my body I know what I’m doing.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The teddy bears have packed up their picnic
and started climbing into black bags
and boxes with the words CHARITY SHOP
written on the side in marker pen along with
wooden jigsaw pieces shaped like pigs,
squeaky giraffes, and bunny maracas
to make way for plastic gorillas with knife-sharp
teeth hungry to crush Hot Wheels and books
about dinosaur turds and wallets stuffed with
Erling Haaland, Jarrod Bowen, Marvelous Nakamba
and conversations about death and dying
and the same old box of trusted train tracks
they’ll one day find in his cold, dusty loft.

Carl Burkitt 2024

The blackbird is eating
last night vomit off the path outside
the pub named after a monarch.
He looks too tired
to be making a statement
and too hungry to make a change.

Carl Burkitt 2024

I have a friend
whose face contorts in agony
like a bullet’s entered his thigh
or a hatchback has rolled over his toes
when you tell him something bad
has happened to you.
His skin screams at your pain.
He does not whisper
how he wishes you are OK.
He stands on rooftops to tell
any creature with a heart
that you do not deserve this
and he looks you in the eyes with his
as he says We’ll get through this.

Carl Burkitt 2024

As if I’d bloody tell you. Haha, nah, I’ve got a few jobs to crack on with. I’ve still not finished the shelves in the garage and she’s been banging on for years about a curtain rail in the office. I’ve got a few gammon joints lined up for my tea and I’m hoping Paul is free at the weekend. It’ll be slow, to be honest. I tell her all the time how I want a bit of free time but those ten days sound like hell when you say them. I wonder if there’s any football on.

Carl Burkitt 2024

She’s OK, you know. Still strong enough to complain! … That’s not fair. The wound’s taking a lot longer to heal than we thought. I told the nurse we should let some air get to it, but she insisted the gel they’re using under the dressing on her stomach is helping it heal from the inside out … what do I know? We’re walking two miles a day. Same route over again. It’s reminding me of lockdown. It’s not exciting … that’s not fair. Her company is as alive as a thousand people.

Carl Burkitt 2024

He’s dropped his phone but his back’s
packed in so he has a choice to make:
ask me
or the chess playing couple opposite him
or the chap pretending to read the paper
or the mother hoping her daughter
will stay asleep in her pram long enough
for one more mini bottle of prosecco
or the guy from the charity shop flicking
through the scuffed Where’s Wally book
he bought for his nephew
or his oldest pal next to him desperate
to finally do something useful
or attenpt to pick it up himself.
His guttural scream is enough
to tell you what happened next.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Find yourself a local pub
where you feel comfortable
interrupting a group of strangers
to correct their football knowledge
without feeling like a knobhead
or getting glassed in the mouth.

Carl Burkitt 2024

I don’t think
the words printed on the back of the man’s jumper
factored in the thoughts
racing through my mind
as I read them
in a queue for 25 minutes
while the cafe’s coffee machine was being fixed.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Good ones, he says, proper goats are
ones with beards on their chins
and sticky out ears on their long faces.
They’re like sheep, Daddy, but they’re
goats. Goats. You know, they’re goats, like
on that school residential trip you went on to
a farm somewhere in Wales for a week,
Tragoze, I think, where that farmer, the one with
grey in his beard and age on his tummy took
one look at you on the Monday
and said, you look like one of our goats.
Tuesday to Friday, you were called
Goat Boy and
one of the girls said she’d never kiss you
and made goat noises in your eyes and
the farmer patted your head like, well, a
goat and you still wish, how, instead of dwelling
on the loneliness that grew into
anger
that week, you spent the time looking at
Graeme’s face
over
and over
to allow you to write about it in better detail.

Carl Burkitt 2024