His knees know too much.
He is as old as the 20th century was
the year I was born.
The tongues in his trainers
have as many stories as the one in his mouth.
Sweat suits him. It runs
like time over Lycra skin. He nods at trees
and whistles the clouds away.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Kathy Burke says people stop her
in the street asking her to tell them
to Fuck off instead of asking for a photo.
Perhaps the man in the park,
the one telling me to Fuck off
while I’m trying to take a picture
of a daft squirrel in a tree,
thinks I made the same request of him.
He’s gone now
unaware my brain will wear him
like a mole I’ll have to keep an eye on
for eternity. 

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I am topless in the kitchen. My son
asks why my stomach has hair on it.
Three hours later – in the café
reading a book about a man desperate
to find his fun self again, the self he was
when making friends was easy
and his skin was knife-proof, the self
that had heard of thunderstorms
but never felt one – I thought of my reply:
You know the patches of Nana’s grass
that are slightly taller because of dog wee?
That’s what’s happening to my chest.  

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The newspaper says we live
in the 26th most desirable place in Britain.
It speaks of cask ale pubs, cocktail bars,
the proximity of the train station
to most amenities. Linda, who’s been here
for over 50 years, says she’s surprised
it’s so high because the green spaces have gone
and the infrastructure can’t support
the ever increasing population. Ben, 21, says
he’d like at least two more pubs
and I can’t find anywhere to buy a new belt.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

She asks what he’s reading.
Nothing, he says.
She waits, then keeps walking.
He looks up from his book,
not reading a thing.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The band will form
in a dying town. Matthew on drums,
Matty on bass, Matt on guitar, Doug on vocals.
Their songs will focus on fried breakfasts,
farming, omelettes, and other topics
that mean the world to them.
When they’re not recording, they’ll sit
on a filthy beach and learn how to drink.
Matthew won’t speak. Matty will skim stones.
Matt will take his top off. Doug will see
lyrics of loss in abandoned seashells
and not know what to do with them.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

we are crabs
chatting about the importance of life rings.
You ask my why buoys are called buoys
and I don’t pretend to know
and remind you
to protect your chips
and the soft side of your soul
from seagulls.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I wonder if Pele or Maradona
ever had to sit and wait this long for anyone
and a sweat attacks me
with the thought of anyone hearing
me, for a second, compare myself
to Pele and Maradona. I am thirsty,
but cannot swallow a my brain.
You are currently caller number 9.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

thanking that teacher who, back in the day,
refused to let you go down the wrong path –
the bloke with a beard like the rough side
of a sponge and sense of humour of a character
in a Lee Mack sitcom. Michael asks what you were
like as a child and you make a joke about not being
very interesting until you got to college
but I remember the way you would line up you
charity shop toy cars into living room length
traffic jams, how you knew everyone’s
favourite colour, how you would celebrate
spotting the first letter of your cousin’s name
in shop signs or drain covers. I remember
the way you thought raising one finger
was a thumbs up and couldn’t sleep
without an audiobook. Michael asks what
your parents were like and you stare directly
down the camera.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I’ll get this one.
No, I’ll get this one.
No, let me get this one.
But you got the last one.
Yeah, but you got the first two.
Yeah, but you and Debra held the BBQ.
Yeah, but you and Margaret sorted the gig tickets.
Yeah, but you bought the train tickets.
Yeah, but you
Yeah, but
Yeah

© Carl Burkitt 2023