He yells it across the shop
like wind in a storm.
I hope this rain doesn’t follow you.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They’re sharing
a bag of Giant Wotsits
leaning against a wall,
watching the pump
slide into a car’s hole,
winking at each other.
Just too young for petrol,
never too old
for the Chupa Chups
in their back pocket.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.
The words squeeze their way
through the cracks in two doorways.
Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.
I feel the creek of my hip wake up.
Daddy. Dad. Daddy.
I see hands at the ends of my wrists;
a new, familiar shape of freckled shovels.
Dad. Dad. Daddy.
Patches of my head sit between hairs;
the gaps as soft as soil for problems
to grow underneath like potatoes
I’m learning how to pick and peel.
Dad. Dad. Dad.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s holding four bags of cookies
for the office. His eyes are cups of tea,
his mouth a row of sugar lumps.
The bounce in his step on the outside road
jumps up to the flat I’m standing in
waiting for my son to wake up
imagining the four bags of cookies
he is holding are for the office.
I can’t even see his eyes.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The karate boys are in the coffee shop,
cheddar cheese belts wrapped
around white bread jackets.
They are kicking the air, the chairs,
each other. One just chopped his certificate
in two. Five of them are running between tables
topped with cappuccinos and chocolate muffins.
They’re lifting their arms up: KIAI! then throwing
them down. KIAI! and down again.
Hiya! a toddler waves, desperate to join in,
the karate boys ignore him. KIAI!
The only girl sitting atop a barstool,
wearing the only orange belt in the room,
waves at the toddler, Hiya,
before returning to her ham toastie.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

he is 11 foot tall and has six eyes.
I like how his arms are made
of wooden beams and his hands are
goalkeeper gloves and his teeth are
the knobbly bits on a guitar’s head.
He is always there, under my skin,
buried in the bones of my wrist joint
when winter decides it should hurt.
I like how when things are going well
he turns up as a grey mist
to remind me that death is always there
and it’s a choice whether I join him
or do what I can to remember buttercups exist.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The man on the television is having surgery
and he will probably die because his life is filled
with love and laughter and his wife is expecting
a baby and all the actors playing doctors
believe he will be absolutely fine. I saw a dog
yesterday run across the road without looking
left and right and the cars just drove
and the dog made it to the other side
and into the park and its owner didn’t say a word
and oh look the man survived his surgery.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There’s a Mini in the recycling truck,
an octopus on the train tracks,
a fake hotdog in a pushchair.
Books are hats and shoes and pillows.
Your legs are dog legs, your tongue
is a bubble catcher, your hand is a spade.
The tractor is a head massager,
the DVD case is a fly swatter,
the wooden egg is a grenade.
Today is tomorrow and yesterday
and forever and the corner of a room
built by the fingers in your mind.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

On second thoughts, go for it.
Throw the stroopwafels in the basket,
push the bag of lentils, scream at the cereal.
Have at it; stand in the middle of the coffee shop
and eat your sandwich under the fan,
we can relearn how to sit down tomorrow.
It’s 6.30am, of course we can walk
past the charity shop to check it’s open
even though I know it’s not.
Look at that man chewing a Solero in two bites,
he won’t mind you rubbing your fingers
under your sweaty armpits and licking them clean.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The men are yelling
compliments at each other
outside the pub like bombs
they’ve been desperate
to throw for years.
If you don’t start
treating yourself kindly,
I will break your nose.

© Carl Burkitt 2022