We hang pictures on our walls
to remind us of faces we’ve seen.
We roll hand towels when people visit,
use a dust pan and brush to remove our skin,
put £1.50 crisps in salad bowls.
We worry about mould that doesn’t exist yet,
try not to run out of milk, buy too many bananas,
look at the sun without blinking,
wonder if strangers know what we’re thinking
so let our smiles swing between lampposts
and resist eating from each other’s scalp.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

She’s doing discos in the kitchen,
touring with Steps in the evening.
It’s Liverpool this week, Glasgow next week.
Her book is out in hardback, she’s spinning plates.
My knees are murder on the living room floor.
Sophie Ellis-Bextor has five kids.
I might go to Costa later, let the men
from the bookies blow raspberries at my son.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

You are 15. You walk with your heart
in front of you. Everything that will ever hurt you
already exists in unopened boxes.
The air is thin and you think you can swim
in it as you reach a hand up to take
an apple out of a cloud and sing
the first words that get sent to your mouth.
There is no need for oxygen when you are made
out of wet look hair gel and Mars Bars.
Don’t think about tomorrow,
it is not real, it is a rumour invented by people
desperate to make you believe
there is a point to all of this.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

After Billy Collins

Imagine a crab with the face of a priest,
a banana with the skin of a snake,
a sofa with the height of a mountain.
Imagine a front door with shark teeth,
a lollipop made out of fingernails,
a vacuum cleaner with a skull.
Imagine a baseball cap with an ice cream rim,
a slipper with a ghost’s mouth,
a set of goalie gloves with a future.
You’re having dreams these days
and I cannot imagine what you’re seeing.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Sometimes,
waking up
is doing your best.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

They hug
and slap each other’s backs
like shovels to the final dirt
chucked on top of graves.
They let go,
thick necks and soft eyes
directly opposite each other.
They don’t
say a word. They head
to the bar and spend five minutes
joking with the staff;
fingerprints tingle on spines.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Pardon?
Coated almonds.
What?
Coated almonds.
What?
Chocolate coated almonds.
Huh?
It went on and on and on
until almonds became air
and Waitrose melted into soil
and the couple became fish
that grew legs and pointed
at the sun in awe.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

She checks her receipt next to the till.
She looks at the red peppers, white onions,
celery, broccoli, eggs, cheese, tomatoes,
tiger rolls, avocados, olive oil, Greek yogurt,
and salt and vinegar Pringles
in her supermarket’s anniversary tote bag
and then back at the words typed
on the bit of paper that is as thin
as her confidence in strangers.
It’s all fine, she thinks, and heads off
to remember when things like shopping
were as simple as waking up.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The man reversed the sixteen wheel lorry
down an alley with no-one helping him.
The lady at number 31 grew plants from the ground.
The sky was above all of our heads
with nothing supporting its weight.
A bird grabbed a worm without touching the floor.
ASDA had a broccoli.
Two strangers high-fived.
A baby found his nose when asked where it was.
Cats existed. Dogs existed. You existed.
The walls didn’t cave in for a bit.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

It knows what you want for Christmas
and sits back as the stars shine.
The moon gives you one too many sweets.
It forgets the beige jacket it popped
on the banister two hours earlier.
The moon is in charge of its knees
and can’t pronounce all of the names
of the players on its favourite football team.
The moon blinks more than it used to.
It can’t drive in the dark and wishes
it could have one more sugar in its cup of tea.
The moon is exhausted and wants to know
all about the new game you’re playing.

© Carl Burkitt 2021