They’re cleaning their car together.
He is too hard to wear a hat
outside in early December.
She is yellow comfort in hers,
gentle strokes of a soft sponge.
I think he hates his car,
trying to scratch it with water.
The driveway is suds
and unspoken conversation.
They both wave and smile
to a man without gloves walking home
to only a handful of faces he knows.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Someone shared an image
their daughter had painted online.
It was a dish of chopped lemons
and a silver grater. The background
was herb green and the shadows
and light landed in the right places.
I cried. It’s difficult to imagine
you creating fruit when
there’s so much to work out here.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

There’s a jigsaw puzzle
on the breakfast bar:
endless pieces
of a broken Victorian
Christmas. Specks of snow
in odd-shaped blue
mixed in with half
the words of a sign
selling warm chestnuts.
Miniature fingers
want to reach and create
a mess of the mess
but we wait
to see what it will become.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

When I grow up
I want to be Paul and Barry Chuckle.
I want to wear red braces.
I want a catchphrase repeated.
I want to feel comfortable
with a moustache when eating soup.
I want the energy for panto.
I want a catchphrase repeated.
I want to smile
so wide people think
my cheeks will explode.
I want a catchphrase repeated.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The owner of one dry cleaners
just walked into another dry cleaners
holding a white shirt folded over his forearm.
Here’s one for you, Harry.
How on Earth did you do that, Bob?!
They have loads to talk about:
all kinds of clean jokes and tip-sharing.
I wonder how many times they’ve said
the phrase Red wine stain on a weekday.
Do they look at suits hanging up
and imagine the weddings they’re going to,
the offices they hate being in,
the coffins they will carry on their shoulders?
Here’s one for you, Harry.
Sorry to hear that, Bob.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

He is a single dad with twins.
They have names
fit for the red carpet
and understanding school corridors.
The kids fight like enemies.
He can’t remember a time
when he’s been able to turn around
without fear climbing up his spine.
Mornings are the feeling
in his stomach before stepping on stage.
His name is Ian.
No one expected 9pm to be his bedtime.
Life is harder than it used to be but he reckons
he could have 5 or 6 or 7 or 8 more.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

of
a
day
of
a

morning
of
a
mind

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The wardrobe door handles are giraffe
lined up waiting to be needed.
Rushed-morning fingerprints are dotted
across faded brass necks. Tails are non-existent.
The final of the four is charmingly wonky
or out of shape from an impatient hand,
depending on what mood you’re in.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Eight thumbs and 32 fingers on the piano
in their own worlds. They never touch.
They are inventors and teachers
and chaos and desperate to learn
and desperate to unlearn and fireworks.
They are the uneven legs of a caterpillar,
sausages from different packets sizzling
in a nappy white pan. They are spaghetti jazz.
They are now and then. They are soft knuckles,
courageous slugs, a bag of giving it a go.

© Carl Burkitt 2021