Its name is written in pink and blue
fluorescent light tubes in front of a dying sky
on top of an immaculate roof. The tiles
shine in any weather. The menu has
pancakes glazed in honey, buffalo chicken wings,
milkshakes for dipping French fries.
The staff have smiley faces hand-drawn
next to their names on their name badges.
The counter top is a red carpet for the weary.
The car park has plenty of space for people
who enjoy selling themselves short,
hiding their power to change a day.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I’m urinating down a country lane
rocking your pram backwards and forwards
to keep you sleeping and it’s slow,
the time it takes for the hills to roll
across my eyes and the smell
of sheep negotiating the quick stream
and the sun hiding behind clouds
whispering to them to do something.
We zip up and walk
over a bridge towards the middle of our chest.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

is an owl running away,
the stiff pedal of a bin,
a melting Dairy Milk,
a dry towel, dead tea,
a box of cracked bones,
records never spinning,
questions stuffed in throats,
a daft ending.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Don’t take the piss. Don’t be sarcastic.
Don’t throw the contents of your life down it.
Don’t whisper to it. Don’t shy away.
Speak up, tell it a joke, take the time to
paint your story across it. Hold its hand.
Check it’s OK, even if it tells you it’s fine.
Tell it about the time you forgot
who you were and why you were there.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

On the other side of the blinds
is a blackness thick
like the tyres of a tractor.
It’s still, nothing to do
but think about when
it could move with the ease
of determined wind. We’re still.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

and we struggle
to know what’s keeping us safe
and what’s holding us back.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

them with the cheese in their sandwiches,
then with the cream in their coffee,
them with their laptops, them with their meeting
notes, them with their Pom Bear crumbs
dotted across their meeting notes,
them with their own voices,
them with pointing their fingers at each other,
her with the softness of his hands,
him with the reaching up to her.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Shuttle bus, combine harvester, classic limousine,
pogo stick, kit car, bubble car, open top bus,
longwall shearer, articulated dump truck,
rigid dump truck, giant tractor, stretch limousine,
you find them all and point at them on the page
when asked like a magician
and reverse through the room
on your feet saying beep, beep, beep
until you trip and hit the ground.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

His best mate isn’t with him.
No one is saying Dead
because dogs never truly leave this pub.
Not one pork pie has been eaten today
without remembering the night
that golden boy retrieved six for himself
from the fridge when no one was looking.
The sound of his claws tap dancing on floorboards
are in all of our ears when new pups strut in.
The silence of the water bowl
is louder than a bark at a New Year’s firework.
The bloke is letting people ask him how he’s doing.
He nods, the ghost of a lead tugging
him towards more than OK, thanks.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Tractor Ted is not big enough for a buck rake
but is allowed to help squash the grass.
His square, green face is concentrating
on the job in hand, pushing every blade
down with animated precision. His smile
is drawn on by a human we’ll never meet
but it is as real as your tightening muscles,
twisting wrists and stamping feet
in rhythm to the background music.
You point like you invented the wheel.
You are alive and have invited your body
along for the ride.

© Carl Burkitt 2022