I enjoy washing the dishes.
I pretend the tablespoons are battleships
and that I’m giving my hands a bubble bath.
I don’t, but I might next time.
I pretend the plates are my babies
and I’m cleaning a weekend adventure off them.
I don’t, but I might next time.
I like that it forces me to be on my own for a while.
I like that it slows me down, makes me feel useful.
I look out at the bus stop opposite my flat while I scrub
and wonder if the combination of a waist-high
windowsill and a first floor kitchen
makes it look like I’m masturbating to passersby.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

There’s a spiral in my fingerprint that I get lost in.
It’s like something from a Geography textbook.
The middle is thin and intricate
then expands into controlled chaos.
When I think about everywhere I’ve left it
I get a little overwhelmed:
car door handles, ice lolly sticks, eggshells,
the side of my temples, Christmas crackers,
funeral order of services, dog poo bags.
It sits near the tip of my left hand’s ring finger.
That one gets all the stories.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

When asked what animal I would be
I tend to opt for a giraffe.
I’m pretty tall, thin-limbed and knobbly-kneed.
I have patchy skin, sticky-out ears,
small tufts of hair and I like leaves.
Poking my massive tongue out is fun too.
There have been days I’ve felt more like a pig,
or a butterfly that can taste everything it walks on.
Sometimes I’m a shrimp with its heart in its head.
It’d be nice to hibernate for 17 years like a cicadas.
I once felt like a cute little mouse.
But deep down I know
I’m going to be startled to death like a chicken.

© Carl Burkitt 2020