I once called a train guard the worst word
I could have possibly called him when he shut
the door at departure time and didn’t let me on.
I bought him a Twix in my one hour wait
to apologise but I think about it most days.
I once slammed a 4am kebab shop door shut
when the man told me they had no chips.
I think about it most days.
I’ve lost count how many times I’ve tutted
into the eyes of a stranger behind a bar
when I’m 10 seconds late for last orders.
I think about each tut most days.
I don’t want to shout at the sky and wish you were a snow flake sent to tuck me
into bed and relax my skin with a lullaby
because you’re only doing your job
and I’ve got too much to think about.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

You are nails.
You are made from the bricks
of the longest standing buildings in the world.
You are the stuff of cathedrals.
You are a rhino in a bullet proof vest.
You are Rocky’s frozen meat.
You are my 30th birthday walking boots.
You could bite through an iceberg.
You could bend Saturn’s rings.
You could punch through a tree trunk
but you never would.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

On Friday my postman told me his name.
After 18 months I realised I’d never asked.
As he reached a midway L
his tongue licked his first-class teeth.
The shine in his eye was a welcome mat
buckling under stacks of the word Colin.
The way he rings my doorbell to hand me envelopes
that easily could have fit through the letter box
and picks up the conversation from where we left off
instead of delivering unwelcome small talk
is enough to tell me I’m not just a number.
I wonder if anyone has ever said my name
in their mind’s ear as much as Colin.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I am writing to make you aware of the forthcoming
upgrades to our gas network in your area. Our project
involves the essential replacement of old metal gas
with the newest molecules on earth. Your home will
be filled with a floaty reminder of where you come from.
You may experience light-headedness at the slightest
of feelings. We have planned this work in close
collaboration with your soul and cannot
promise it will ever come to an end.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

You are like a pocket watch.
A pocket watch too big
for my pocket.
A pocket watch sparkling
with the effort of a million years.
A pocket watch with hands
made of lightening.
A pocket watch that ticks
with the scream of bombs.
A pocket watch that stinks.
A pocket watch that doesn’t know
it’s a pocket watch.
A pocket watch I had no idea
I could make.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I wonder what will be
the first hurtful thing you say to me.
Maybe it will be about
my dead eyes in our photos.
Maybe it will be about
my overcooked fried eggs or my crow toe.
Maybe it will be about
how I still watch wrestling
or the Rice Krispie growing under my armpit.
Maybe it will be about
the range of colours in my beard
or how I pay to listen to VIP podcasts
of journalists talking about wrestling.
Maybe it will be about
the lines in my forehead, my thin lips, my 5K time
or my collection of wrestling t-shirts.
Maybe it will be about my self esteem.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

You won’t remember any of this.
The day tectonic plates shifted
into a new time zone.
The day my hair grew from a different scalp.
The day the universe
could fit inside a yellow blanket.
The day I understood trees.
The day I counted ribs.
The day I slipped into the future.
The day I threw my t-shirt into the toilet
instead of the wash basket
because my eyes were as clear
as dustbin lids.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

He had his tail between his legs.
Doubt it.
Cat got your tongue?
What?
Read between the lines.
Why?
Thank God it’s Friday!
Christ.
All that glitters ain’t gold.
Obviously.
There’s nothing like the feeling of your child
holding your finger for the first time.
I’ll give you that.
I tell it like it is.
Piss off.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

On paper,
you were from a different time.
On TV,
you were a neighbour.
On film,
you were the motivational partner
of a scrappy American fighter
tangled in his family’s concerns.
On radio,
you were the one
who had never been to you.
On that day,
you were the umbrella in a storm
until the sun let us see our world.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

One day I will read your instruction manual,
but right now I plan to pretend
your face is the moon
and I am the first man
planting a flag in your freshly dusted cheek
stitched together with every mistake
we plan to make together
and apart.

© Carl Burkitt 2020