He’s had a tough day
and asks if I mind him joining me.
He sits down and rubs his forehead,
his fingers wet sponges
soothing the chassis of a 4 x 4.
I’d rather not talk about it,
he says, unprompted, so we remain
strangers sharing a chunk of the afternoon.
His first pint goes and he tells me
he’s no good at exams and today
he was forced to take one in a conference centre
for a security job he’s been trusted to do
for the last 20 years. Sorry, mate, he says.
You don’t want to hear about
marauding terrorist attacks and defibrillators.
The biscuits they had were good though.
I put my book down. He buys me a pint.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I’m minding my own business in B&Q
pretending I know the name of the parts
of a lawn mower my son is pointing at.
What’s that? What’s that? What’s that?
Out of the toilet aisle emerges a man.
He’s walking towards us with a dog I’ve seen
before. My toddler is laughing at the grass
collection box of the Bosch Rotak model.
The man reaches us. He’s wearing a hat
I’ve drunkenly complimented before.
We don’t know each other in the daytime.
Hello mate, he nods, like every time
I walk into the local pub.
He has an arm around a woman
he’s told me is the reason he is alive
after five stouts on his solo table.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The old boys are having a beer.
Their tweed mate joins them.
Perfect timing, they laugh.
We’ve not a chance to discuss
our ailments yet. Care to kick us off?
He rolls his eyes, undoes his jacket,
sips the only red wine the pub sells
at the pace of a slow-motion replay.
He puts his glass on the table,
tuts at their question, and begins
to tell them how he’s been walking
a lot more lately. The old boys smile.
And your ailments? one asks.
Their mate pauses, picks up his glass,
and replies: The arse is a nightmare.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I walk into the pub and I am a sitcom character
waving at the bloke sipping white wine
like it’s summer, the woman with the dog
that smells of pig’s ears, the family
arguing over the spelling of ‘misspell’
in their game of Scrabble, the barman
with the awful taste in music. The chap
with the flat cap eating chilli peanuts
asks me how I am and I say something
to make the studio audience laugh.
And how they laugh. They laugh and laugh
and the other characters slowly stop waving
and the audience just laugh and laugh
and it’s unsettling when the air leaves room.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

after Brian Bilston

for anyone who is interested
in the make up of a cereal bowl
of a man they never met. He had them
with full fat milk, probably, and used the
heavy spoons that continue to live
in my cutlery drawer
with their fork and knife siblings
that stand with straight backs. They’d salute
if they could but they are civilians
being used for eggs on toast brunches
by people unaware how to talk
about the army, desperate to talk
about him.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

His denim shirt looks casual
over a torso fit for a robot.
He’s sat awkwardly on a metal stool
like the unloved one in a boy band
in the dying weeks of Tops of the Pops.
It’s half time of a football match
people in this pub care about
and Lucian’s on a screen the size of a TARDIS.
He wants me
to reconsider what phone I have in my pocket,
but there are people in there,
numbers of corpses, hours of game time,
work I’ve been made to think is important,
photos for a child to remember I wasn’t always sad.
For a moment, Lucian’s paid-for smile
almost convinces me.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I like pubs
that place little flip top jars of ale
in front of their corresponding pumps
for punters to get a preview.
They are a wet breadcrumb trail
leading to a house
that, some days, feels made
of rickety wood,
damp skin and rotting bones,
and others is nothing short
of a fairytale.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He was the kind of man
who helped old ladies cross the road, rescued cats from trees, got cereal
down from the top shelf for strangers
in the supermarket, called his mum
three times a week, kept a baseball bat
under his bed, carved his son’s sandwiches
into the shape of a smiley face.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

To the uninitiated, this is a book
about nothing. Don’t get too attached
to any sentences or images or themes.
Don’t be fooled by the upbeat words
or the bits that make you feel
like they’re leading to a neatly
wrapped ending. You’ll meet a few people.
Some will be dressed in suits or running
shoes or will have jewellery on their bodies
left by a loved one. Some will
have sing-song voices, some will be afraid.
Some will have jobs, some will cook food,
some will climb mountains. Say hello
to them, sure, but don’t get too attached,
this is a book about nothing.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He walks into the pub – black duffle coat,
black beret, black jeans, black running shoes.
Looking suave, I say, as he whistles towards me.
Even with these soup stains? he says,
lifting up a splashed sleeve of his jacket.
What flavour soup? I say.
Who knows. Here, he says, You’re a writer,
you’ll like these. His hand dunks itself
into his black satchel, pulls out a notebook
stuffed with the last words of dead celebrities.
Peanut? he offers.

© Carl Burkitt 2023