The king of Scotland in the pub
with pork pie knuckles and a two pound tip
twinkling in his eye. A toddler with frog’s legs,
airplane arms and Rice Krispie teeth.
A fish with a fishing rod. A wardrobe in a hi-vis jacket.
A landlord made from the pages of a phone book.
A mixologist with disco ball earrings
disappointed with a breakfast tea order.
A commuter holding a steering wheel
like a dog-sitter pinching the top of a stuffed
poo bag. A debutant butcher holding his breath.
A gladiator with an NHS laptop. Laurel and Hardy
if Laurel and Hardy couldn’t write jokes.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

You can say the word conker.
You know what a conker is.
You can recognise the letters in the word conker.
C.O.N.K.E.R.
Conker.
When you see a conker on the ground
you say, “Conker”.
Last weekend, when we went looking
for conkers in the park and a conker
fell out of the tree and hit my head
you said “Oh no. A conker hit you.
Are you OK?”
You have a head and a heart and a mouth
that can say “conker”.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

It will probably involve
those people who look
over your shoulder
when you’re talking.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I’m gently drying my naked body
after a shower in the flat I live in
with my wife and son
thinking about how, when asked as a child,
I would say I wanted to be a Chippendale when I grow up.
I’m no longer chipper
enough to be a stripper. My abs did not sit up
as much as I imagined they would
and I don’t like thinking
about how often I would apologise
to future mothers-in-law on hen dos
for the hairs of my rear end
bearing down on the knees of their jeans. 
I’m filling the mirror of this bathroom with eyes
and hips that can remember dancing,
and lips I hope will remember to tell my son
if he wants to be a train
you’ve got to keep choo choo chooing.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I will never get a dog
because I do not want to be a dog walker
who finds a body in the woods. 

© Carl Burkitt 2023

so I started filling it with hilarious observations
and encounters. Things like the time a dog
in the park had the same name as my mate
and how my mate sat down when the owner yelled
Sit! And when a toddler in the cafe ask if I was
Father Christmas. And when a bloke in the pub
didn’t hear himself fart. And how yesterday’s
cloud looked like my maths teacher’s hair.
And the gentle way my son says Soap
when he means to say So. And the way I enjoy
the sensation of jolting awake in bed
after feeling like I was falling because at least
a butterfly-sized part of me knows
staying alive might be a good thing.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

A woman is walking
what appears to be a dog
in the park I appear to be writing in.
I don’t know what breed it is but
all of the fur on its body
except the head
has been shaved, making it look
like a toilet brush with legs.
I don’t have much to write about
today. My relationships are going well.
My body is exercised and fed.
The dead people in my life are still dead and
a woman is walking
what appears to be a dog
in the park. 

© Carl Burkitt 2023

We are alive on the living room floor
driving fire engines in sunlight from glass doors.
Your fingers are emotions
in traffic jams waiting to explore.
Anger sits in nails, sharp, quick,
on the surface, not the core
of you. We must remember to trim them
gently. Let them grow. You will roar.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Mother and son in cafe seats,
thin yellow raincoats, sunshine cheeks.
In the smallest hands,
a gingerbread man –
while it can –
smiles with teeth.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I miss being slide tackled.
I miss slide tackling someone.
I miss coming together with a stranger
in the heat of a goal mouth
to make a bowl of shin pad spaghetti.
I miss mud on my bum.
I miss dry ground ripping skin
off my desperate knees.
I miss being slide tackled
by someone who wants to break my legs
because they’re having a bad day
and the thin stitching of my socks
that reminds them of their father’s skin. 

© Carl Burkitt 2023