I remember two bottles of orange Reef
in each hand. I remember short sleeve shirts
and silver buckled loafers. I remember vibrating
phones and voicemail tones. I remember
wet-look heads, piss in phone boxes, cartwheels
down high streets. I remember pretending
it wasn’t real. I remember Justin Timberlake.
I remember garlic mayonnaise
and finding the hotel key. I remember
the three of us with 30 seconds alone making
an underage toast, unsure what the words meant.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I bite my finger nails. I like to nibble my claws.
Not when I’m nervous, when I’m bored.
Anxiousness gets my legs dancing.
Before an exam I could ride a tricycle
up a black ice covered mountain.
When a video conference call dials
I’m Road Runner smashing through a wall.
Sat around a meeting room table waiting for my turn
to announce my name and one fact about me
I could teach Michael Flatley a thing or two.
When I stood at the end of the aisle on that sunny
October morning, I was a gold spray-painted busker
frozen on the local high street.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I’m a hairy boy. My body’s getting bigger.
My ears are full of curls and my eyes
can see more than eyebrows.
My face is thick. My fingers have new
candy floss cheeks to play with.
I caught some cucumber on my chin-Velcro today
like a fluffy baseball glove doing its job.
I’m a hairy boy. My body’s getting bigger.
I don’t recognise my shadow. I have the silhouette
of decisions I’ve always chosen not to make.
I’m Tarzan growing the jungle from my pores.
I’m a mole on Bigfoot’s back.
I’m a welcome mat not quite up to the job.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The buses are empty.
But they keep going.
Morning, noon and night
they drive by my living room window
with the eeriness of a hearse
heading back to its garage.
It’s like the ghosts have opted
for a cheaper commute home.
It’s strange not seeing a bus stop.
They’re like hungry sharks never sleeping.
Always moving.
The buses are empty.
But they just keep going.

© Carl Burkitt 2020