We sit like we used to,
a cup of tea telling my hands
to wake up as soon as they can,
backside on a hard-backed stool,
bones crumbling like over-cooked toast,
eyes remembering Saturday breakfast
fried eggs at lunchtime, you
dancing to the sound of the bin men,
poking a finger into a bowl of Weetabix,
holding a spoon in the air
like you invented it.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

On a road parallel to this one
I see myself and he is
eating vegetables, booking dentist
appointments before fillings break,
moisturising his hands, stretching,
putting important documents
into a filing system, talking kindly
to himself, massaging his scalp,
reading the important books,
wrapping presents, following up
on messages, watering plants,
breathing, breathing, breathing.
I nod to him until the tarmac melts
into a river and I watch as he
uses his ability to swim.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Take the midnight roof off this flat
and the clouds will see
the crumbs of motionless bodies.
Remove the walls and you’ll see
how close their heads are
to toilets, boilers, ovens.
Remove the floors
and they will float
in the comfort of each other.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

To be honest, I was just about to eat
a sandwich before you called. Cheese
with a healthy dose of salad cream.
I used to eat when I was young,
when my knees didn’t dream of a furnace.
I’d usually have a crisp bit of lettuce
buried under an unnecessary layer of butter
on the top slice of brown bread,
but what we have left has rotted
in the vegetable crisper next to a tomato
slowly leaking like a brain taking on too much.
How about you?

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s sat in a Vauxhall Corsa
with dinosaur shaped wellies
shoved over both of his hands.
A probable chocolate stain
is resting on his cheek next to a tear.
A woman is in the carpark
walking towards the train station,
she yells the words while pulling
her phone out of her handbag.
A man behind the steering wheel
pulls the car away before a wave
has the chance to live.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The public bench
by the shop my brother had his first
weekend job no longer has
the word BEEF spray painted on it.
The car park is exactly as it was:
square, full of cars, no wildlife to hide in.
My eyes are three and a half
decades old but can still see the lads
who told me to give them my change.
Lactic acid leaves muscles eventually
but that feeling you are meat never does.
I pushed a sleeping cub outside the shop today
while a lion not from round here
gathered mini Twisters and Cornettos.
We ate them as the sun seasoned our skin.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

and I must say it is stunning.
Oh look, there it goes
back in its van for another year.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Inconsequential things
like your loose change, the kitchen roll,
the spare batteries, the egg cups, your wallet,
your glasses, your keys, your keys, your keys,
the time, the smell of bacon, the
the energy to say sorry
but you’ve spelt my name wrong,
your sense of self worth, the football sticker book
in the 90s when all the West Ham players
were impossible to find, that picture of you
in the limo that made the news.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Does the sun cook your skin to crackling?
Do your teeth become leather after sugar?
Do you laugh when you fall over?
Do you pack too many pairs of pants
for an overnight stay? Do ties feel too tight?
Do rooms feel too big? What are leaves?
When did you last cry at a cloud?
How often do your bones tell you to do something
completely irreversible? How often do you listen?
Has it been a few weeks since you thought
there was a reason to your feelings?
Isn’t it strange when the floor melts
and you realise you are only stood up straight
because you are doing all you can to do so?

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The driver of the van
has sunglasses like the Terminator.
His face is the shape of a bullet,
forward on the road in front of him.
He cannot see toddlers waving
because he has a skip to return,
a square holding dead fun.

© Carl Burkitt 2022