I’ve never liked flannel shirts.
When did Frank Skinner
have a baby with Peter Crouch?
Did he just order a portion of chips
after already eating a burger and chips
and onion rings?
Jeremy Clarkson looks younger than I thought.
He fiddles with his wedding ring a lot.
He’s definitely pretending to read that book.
I wonder if he’s the kind of guy
who looks in the mirror and asks his reflection
questions he doesn’t want the answer to.
It won’t be long until he has to shave that head.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

More than twice a week
I think about the extra I saw
in an episode of EastEnders
who accidentally dropped tea
down his trousers in the café
as Phil and Grant Mitchell
argued in the foreground.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Sometimes things are late.
Three FA Cup Final goals arrived
outside M&S while my wife
went through the weirdest time
of our lives.
Our son looks like
every human ever made
but I can wait.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The head
of a poorly poured beer
is the fuzzy optimist
I wish to be.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Four pairs of underwear
is not enough for two days away
because what if I shit myself more than twice?
What if five friends need to borrow a pair?
What if six mice need parachutes?
What if there’s no confetti at the wedding and we
need to shred my pants to throw at the couple?
What if I accidentally murder someone in the street
and the ambulance never arrive and there’s
no one to cover the body like they do
when someone dies in a film and I have to sew
my underwear together and lay it over the corpse?
I hate packing.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The couple of old men
are sat side by side
like two halves of a Twix
silently nestled
in a pub bench wrapper.
Their shoulders daren’t touch
but their hearts are screaming
through their forward facing mouths
and painfully strained peripherals.
As I walk past
with my 7-week-old son,
worry lines soften and pint glasses rise
and every word they want to say
dance silently like the ribbons
of a shredded dictionary in a breeze.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I would write about how
I like mucking about in a garden
and eating fried eggs on hash browns.
I would write about how
I go for walks in the afternoon
and lie with my son on the ground.
I would write about how
on paper this is all very standard,
but then you can’t hear my tone.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The road sign said
Hard Shoulder ENDS
and I wondered if I could cut it
as a professional masseur.
I wondered if I’d understand the oils.
I wondered if my sausage fingers
could fumble around the skin of a human
in a motion that inspired confidence.
I wondered if I had the hush tone
to close eyelids without question
and I thought about the man
who I went to with a bad back
and he pushed pressure points
in my right hand and listened
when I finally had a cry.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

And there I was
inside your eyeballs
watching the first fried egg
you’ve ever seen
float into the room
to attack your nostrils.
The yolk looked like
the soft part of your skull
and I wanted to smoosh it.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Today I met a lady
whose grandfather used to own a pig farm.
Her eyes were the size of snouts
when she recounted the moment a sow
stood on her then toddler toes.
It’s OK now though.
She was never allowed to ride the pigs
but she appreciated the question.
She can never remember how many pigs
he had but was sure it was Never enough.
I don’t know my son very well yet,
but I think he has the eyes of someone
who would want to ride a pig.
Or at least the smile of a shop assistant
happy to tell a customer
his 70-year-old Pops likes drum and bass.

© Carl Burkitt 2020