We sing Coldplay and talk
about children outside the takeaway.
We are only a quarter cut
because we wake up for important things
now. Are hugs are as long as the miles
between us. It didn’t take much
to slip into our old dancing shoes
and remember the routine. How are they doing?
How’s she getting on? He alright?
Everyone gets ticked off. We say,
That’s a shame a lot more these days.
The pizzas we cooked at home were nice.
You didn’t have meat for me. We shared
two between three and I’ll have some for lunch
tomorrow. You get on the train and we wait
for heart burn.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Leg. Leg. Leg. Leg.
Red. Blue. Green. Leg.
Sock. White. Whistle.
Leg. Sausage? Ball.
Leg. Leg. Clock. Leg.
Grass. Looks. Too. Good.
Yellow. Red. Flags. Leg.
Why. Am. I. Here.
Leg. Leg. Leg. Hands.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

She knew what he meant
but her eyes remembered
marrying a man who believed in things:
clinking champagne before sipping,
never walking under ladders,
if we get wet we get wet,
buying another pack of eggs just in case
because if we already have some
they’ll get eaten anyway,
it’s worth a shot.
She picked a conker off the floor
and put it in her wide open pocket.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

We’re going to be late for a grown up thing
and you spot it, peering through a crack
in the meeting of concrete and brick wall:
the first firework in the north, a fist
with the winning lottery numbers tattooed
across the knuckles, God mooning,
a green meerkat, a vertical planet,
the queen on tiptoes, a yodelling fox.
It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, so I watch you
watching the life out of it.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

He sits alone
at the table nearest the toilets,
his body draped in over-sized flannel checks,
his beard longer than his face.
He watches the customers
who march in from outside
and waits for the ones who stop
abruptly just behind him, turning
their heads left and right.
He lets a couple of beats play out
before, Looking for the gents?
Just there, mate
and goes back to pretending
to do the crossword
with one hand around his pint glass.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

it decided to land on the gravel path
in the hope it would open up
and be useful for someone else.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

He stands in the window
next to a red teddy bear
and a doll with one arm.
He looks out at the street
as customers limp in
and strut out and he wonders
why all the other houses
on the road are so quiet.
He feels his wings tightening
throughout the day. The word Andy
has completely rubbed out.
At night, the shop sign is no longer
visible and the bricks soften
into a home.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Up and down, he said.
His teeth were every number
between zero and hilarious
and his laugh sent me to the moon.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I’m on a rowing machine in a gym I can’t afford
and a man sits down on the waterless boat
next to me. Another man with biceps
stands
to the left and yells Faster, Carl at him.
The man next to me goes faster.
Faster, Carl. I go faster.
Come on, Carl. The man next to me is trying.
Do it, Carl. I feel like I’m doing it.
Do it better, Carl. The man next to me stops.
Keep going, Carl. My arms feel like concrete.
Stop thinking, Carl. Become air. Watch the sky.
Slap the day. Remember this is temporary.
The man next to me leaves.
Keep going, Carl. Keep going, Carl.
Keep going.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

They don’t wave back:
the clay mushrooms, the porcelain bear,
the photos of names you can’t say yet.
When you look in the mirror you smile.
You swallow the lot through eyes
the size of a future. You don’t wonder
if his edges are rougher than before,
if his flesh deserves kindness,
if he realises what he’s got,
you just watch him wave
and you wave back.

© Carl Burkitt 2021