He decided to be open
so unzipped his skin
and massaged his ribcage
with words hidden
under his tongue.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I like watching you
watching your own hand,
discovering the power it has
and choosing to be gentle.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

There is a walnut door
and brick walls made from grey
with a chocolate ceiling
and a rug like a speckled pastel rainbow
and curtains that don’t exist
but would be beige if they did
like the set of cupboards and drawers
and the dishwasher is ghost white
but it doesn’t matter because the gravestone
nestled in the entrance hallway for John and Alice
is all I am thinking about.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

He mows the grass into a football pitch,
thick green lines as neat as his fingernails.
It’s cold enough for a hat but he doesn’t
wear one because the wind on his hair is
a crowd cheering him on.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

pointing at buses driving by.
When they leave your eyes
you wave and try to say Bye bye.
The man who was here last week
walks over and says Here again?
and I try my best
to say more than Yep.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I give them with such confidence
he says he feels like he’s already there.
Which is good, because I don’t
know where I’m directing him to.
I’m not from round here and I can feel it.
But I am here. And that’s important.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The chimney on the roof
of the furniture shop
turned its neck
because it was a pigeon
which was actually a dog
with fur that was foam
because it wasn’t a dog
it was a sleeping bag
stuffed with rocks
that were balled fists
made from bags under eyes
on the face of a ghost
looking at the roof
for something to look forward to.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

We’re on the left as you walk in
on a square, faux-marble table.
I have a panini stuffed
with three types of cheese,
only one of them is from France.
Some Walkers ready salted are sat beside it.
Two men to my right are talking
about Moira Stewart being born in Scotland
and I won’t tell them she was born in London.
There are no pictures of Patrice Evra in here,
but I am thinking about his talented feet
tapping on the tiled floor wondering
when they will fully settle into their new town.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

It’s earlier than it’s ever been.
We are walking pre-dew. The clouds
haven’t separated. The pavement
hasn’t softened. Morning. Car doors
are closing gently, they don’t know
they have horns yet. Shops are eyes.
Morning! I’ve said it twelve times
to people in fleeces. Their boots have springs.
Their cheeks are crinkled maps.
Autumn is summer if you get up before weather.
Morning. See you soon, pal.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Tim takes his time walking over to his two mates –
salt and pepper beards, cue ball heads, thinning
jumpers – with appropriate caution in each
of his steps while his fingers clutch three pints
of ale in an amber triangle. He daren’t look up.
You know what, Tim?
What’s that?
You could be a barman.
You think?
If it weren’t for all that paint on your hands,
dirty bugger. The laughter clinks
like a trough of empty bottles clattering
into a glass recycling bin. The air softens
as the dregs of previous pints are downed.
How’s Debs coping, Tim?
Better. Thanks for asking.

© Carl Burkitt 2021