You can see it in the pretty clothes he picks
for his daughter, the £450
vet bill for his original fur baby.
His head is a crystal door handle
decorating walls like a disco ball
when the light of a stranger’s interests hits him.
He splices open bags of crisps in pubs –
smoked meat options for the meat eaters,
cheese and onion just in case there are
secret vegetarians among us –
and his mind dances to familiar fingers
nipping in and out like Hungry Hippos.
He knows his way around an expense receipt,
pours out compliments like free gravy.
A bag of peanuts is a reminder that
conversations are poems about death
and 1990’s Arsenal footballers
and obsessions that can become dangerous
if not shared over a stained oak table.
His chest is a megaphone that screams,
‘Just rhyme the last two lines as the reader leaves.’

Carl Burkitt 2025

1. Completing tasks is impossible.

Carl Burkitt 2025

It’s the 10th anniversary of her husband’s death
so her boyfriend is buying her cheesy chips
in the kebab house. She loves him.
And today was a tough morning for her
21-year-old daughter in the nice cafe
holding space over poached eggs.
The boyfriend asks for extra burger sauce
and listens to his girlfriend explain to the staff
how the day was just as hard for him.
He holds her hand and orders onion rings.
“Isn’t he great?” she cries.

Carl Burkitt 2025

After Erin Bolens

The man next to me is asleep.
His head is so tightly against the window
the clouds are ginger curtains.

Carl Burkitt 2025

Batman is riding a BMX. 
The back wheel has no pegs 
which explains why Robin isn’t there.
He’s opted for an orange t-shirt today
and a bag of Haribo Strawbs in his back pocket.
The sun is out but he’s trying not to smile
because the bad guys by the cricket nets
need to know he means business.

Carl Burkitt 2025

Dad is holding my hand
tighter than I’m holding my ice cream.
He cries at the strangest things:
walking to school like we’ve done a hundred times,
me singing a Stormzy song,
watching me brush my own teeth,
the way I use basic manners with strangers,
the smell of pancakes on my birthday morning.
I counted the white hairs in his beard
this morning, but I got bored at 35.
They look like the snowflakes on the day
he taught me how to use a sledge.

Carl Burkitt 2025

We’re explaining to you that Free Willy isn’t real, how the whale wasn’t really captured by evil people who forced it to perform (despite the fact that the whale…actor…was technically captured by the filmmakers and forced to perform in a film about a whale being captured and being forced to perform). You say you understand. But explaining that the 12-year-old boy Jesse is a 45-year-old man called Jason James Richter, is a little bit trickier.

Carl Burkitt 2025

You’re on the third floor
practicing your seagull noises.
The beach is below us outside
but you like being at their level,
spying on people’s chips,
smelling the tops of trees,
telling me what the horizon is,
watching the waves try,
wondering how deep the fish are,
desperate to know where the sun goes.
I float
knowing you think you have wings.

Carl Burkitt 2025

I am in a WhatsApp group with myself
where I send links of hip opening exercises
I’ve seen on social media. The me
who wants to open his hips and improve
his mobility likes to use emojis, gifs,
and bold, italic and capital letters.
The me who pretends his hips aren’t tight
doesn’t say much.
He doesn’t smile or stand up much, either,
but he has multiple WhatsApp groups
with someone sharing Instagram recipes
they will cook together, films they will watch together,
restaurants they will visit together,
long walks they will forget about together,
second hand furniture they won’t buy together,
problems they will head-butt together.

Carl Burkitt 2025

I’m watching amateur cricket in the field
behind my house, sipping a honey pale ale.
I’m reading pages of Tim Key’s book
between the gaps in play,
so I have no doubt this poem will feature details
like my recently purchased Tesco camping chair
beneath my arse and the prominent quiff
of the strapping young umpire.
The next-door-but-one neighbours’ son
has bowled five poor buggers out
for a piddly 11 runs. His mum is as proud as punch
holding a mug of hot coffee, and just promised
to make the whole team samosas if
he bowls out a sixth. Funny, the pressure
we put on our kids. My lad is currently at Asda
getting me a surprise for Father’s Day.
Nice to be loved.
It better not be anything with coconut.
The bastard’s only gone and got himself a sixth!

Carl Burkitt 2025