The poster above the toilet
is telling me to sort out my erectile dysfunction.
It’s using fun language and puns
to make me feel relaxed. My smoothie
said hello to me earlier. The dustbin
with the filthy mouth thanked me
for throwing a teabag in its stomach.
A petrol pump asked if I needed any assistance.
There are no nods from strangers today.
No half waves, no eyebrows raised.
The objects are in charge.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

It’s not a pit stop
it’s a garage carved into a hill.
It’s not a Cornish pasty
it’s pastry covering sunshine.
It’s not a toilet break
it’s knees remembering they are alive.
It’s not a bunch of energy drinks
it’s liquid disappearance into oneself.
It’s not a B and B, it’s a bunch of rooms
tethered by a special occasion.
It’s not nighttime, it’s daytime
covered in the darkness of nighttime
and the fear of being forgotten
by the collection of skin
that pushed a toy train across a train track
while we pretended we needed a weekend
away from you.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

There are two bins outside the train station,
one by each entrance. Or exit, depending on how
you look at where it is you’re going. I’m stood
at the traffic lights, my thin boots are letting me
feel the tiles of bumps made to tell people
where the curb ends. There’s a big poster
stuck to the side of the railway bridge to my right
with a number to call if you want to end your life.
When it feels like no one is looking out
for each other any more I think about
the little sticker on the back of my jelly beans
for me to re-seal the packet, or notebooks
with the ribbon bookmark sewn into the spine.
It’s all I can do.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

He’s cleaning the window of the door
dressed in a freshly pressed three piece suit
and a green, white and red bow tie.
He’s welcoming people with doughy eyes. Pizzas are cooking behind him,
guests are looking at lunch menus,
the floor tiles are smiling celebrity teeth.
He is looking out at the street,
each squeak of his squeegee
improving the view inside and out.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

and I’ve decided
to let Mr Tumble tell us
the story of Jack and the beanstalk.
You’re holding a full length breadstick
because I like remembering you
smaller than you are.
Jack is lugging a giant goose
back down the beanstalk
and I’m struggling to believe
he is strong enough to carry
something bigger than himself.
Mr Tumble is trying his hardest
to move the story on
but you manage to hit rewind
and you’re somehow 20 years old.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The washing machine arrives held by men
with hands the size of beer barrels.
They don’t want a cup of tea because
they’re both desperate for a piss. I apologise
for the tight corners they had to manoeuvre.
They’ve seen worse. They use a drill
for something I don’t understand.
It makes my son cry. I mention I’ve never
been able to confidently use a drill. They ignore me.
The shorter man says he likes my Jim Beam
bourbon whiskey t-shirt, the larger one says
he prefers chinning the stuff. I don’t mention
I can’t stand the drink and none of us
bring up how it belonged to a man
with more courage I can imagine
and how I’ll never have the chance to tell him.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I’m in a car park
behind a swimming pool
next to a thin-wired cage
surrounding an astro-turf football pitch.
Orange and blue hi-vis vests
stop running in circles
to the words of their coach:
What the fuck did I tell you on Saturday?
You’ve got to fucking concentrate.
My son laughs in my wife’s arms;
he’s staring at a puddle
shimmering in the wind.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

As I said that
a tree’s branch slapped into my face
with the force of an insecure boss
wondering why you’re smiling.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The substitute goalie is set to play.
He hopes his gloves are as sticky
on the outside as they are on the inside.
His team’s fans are on the other side of the moon.
The sun is in his eyes. He can hear
his manager’s chewing gum taking
one hell of a beating. The whistle blows
and a thousand different colours
start running around the green lava.
He could’ve sworn people had faces earlier.
All he can see is every mistake he could
possibly make today and the ball floats
into his box and the blobs at the end of his wrists
catch it. He stands still. He has a chat
with his defenders. He wants to ask them
how they are, but just screams
they should be working harder.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

It was like nothing had happened.
People still waved to each other,
cats meowed, dogs tried
not to eat their own turds,
supermarkets opened and needed
bread to be stacked on their shelves
by confused seventeen year olds,
mayonnaise stayed thick, eggs cracked
under pressure, crumbs fell,
muscles and bones and skin grew,
grass got mowed, footballs got kicked,
tarmac still existed: solid,
warm in the sun, death
on countryside lanes at night.

© Carl Burkitt 2021