have ham heads,
broccoli noses,
whips for tongues,
hearts for hands,
nothing to do
but stare.

© Carl Burkitt

He moves with the deliberate precision
of his old man’s old man sliding
his shirt sleeves up his forearm
ready to do the washing up.
Just pop your plate on the side,
you go to bed, I’ve got this.
The curls on his head are thin,
a tangle of wires behind a TV unit.
He pushes toy vans like he knows
where they’re going, confident
he’ll be asked What route did you take?
when he arrives home on a cold Thursday.
He doesn’t have all his teeth
but he doesn’t need them to smile
at the sound of a squeaky hinge
or to tap his hand to the tune in an advert.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

A person with a beard the size of his flat cap
walks out of the grey building next
to the black car holding a bottle of Evian.
He unscrews the cap and pours a touch of water
on to what looks like a neatly folded white shirt.
He dabs the damp garment on to the blemished
roof with a shake of his flat cap and beard.
A stranger appears from around the corner.
The bottle of Evian and emergency rag
hide behind the owner’s back.
The flat cap and beard nod at the stranger.
The stranger nods back. The Porsche says nothing.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There’s a flap on the sugar bowl,
a lid on the bathroom tiles,
a hatch in the side of the TV,
a cover on top of your brain,
a fold on the bananas.
Stand in front of the mirror,
see what jumps out.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Pack it all away:
the death black hoodie,
the boots with duct tape for toes,
the grey beanie tighter than thoughts,
the fingers gloves with no palms,
the pocketless trousers,
the T-shirt with a target on the chest,
the skin begging to feel differently.
Pack it all away, but keep it nearby.
You never know when you’ll need it.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The night is a jaguar’s tail,
too dark to see if the driver has human eyes.
The van is too small for a horse,
too big for a grasshopper or one duck.
We are too far away
to hear any noise from inside.
Can a mouse understand a SatNav?
Cats probably prefer an A-Z map
to show off their skills to stupid hamsters.
The paintwork of the body is tortoise green,
like motorway trees in the day time.
There’s a puppy in the back of our car,
he has two legs, two arms and is daft
enough to think two apes know what’s going on.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I like to pretend I’m not real:
change my accent, comb my hair,
wear trainer socks, tell stories
about the way I’ve been up to no good.
There will be days
people want to listen to the sound
of things falling into place,
the sound of your world relaxing,
the sound of what could always be.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They are chugging orange Lucozade Sports,
spitting on the path, taking selfies of their hair.
They are peacocks. They are tap dancers.
They are magicians at a party we are not invited to.
I’ve never seen so many knees in January.
Half of their ears have wireless headphones plugged in.
Their smiles are goalie glove wide.
Their sky blue tops hold them in hope
like a skydiver clutching their parachute straps.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

What did I do before you were born?
Worry about someone else’s death, I guess.
When your lip exploded in the Waitrose car park
yesterday I felt Grandma’s hands
as my left cheek slid off like ham
in a supermarket’s deli meat slicer.
The man behind us in the pub says,
Trains don’t go ‘choo choo’ anymore,
they’re all electric these days.
You take advantage of not understanding
full sentences and point through the window
at the track with passion stronger than time.
Choo choo. My bones relax like a suit
hung in a wardrobe after a wake.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s sitting in the window
stitching his minutes together
at the sewing machine.
The lights from the pet shop
are blinking in his direction
while the whiff of gherkins
pours in from the burger bar.
The world stomps past him
on busy feet. A fresh set of toes,
only two months into their job,
slow his eyes to a stop.
He waves a well worn hand
with the patience of thread
finding a needle. He is met
with the point of a miniature finger
to push his cheeks into a smile.

© Carl Burkitt 2022