When I’ve got no-one to talk to
I chat to my missus about football
and her eyes are a plastic ball
forced to play keep-ups on a pebbled beach
on a rare family holiday. She smiles
at how I pronounce the European names
and we don’t have the same opinions
on the away kit design.
She lifts a glass of red wine to her lips
like a whistle at the end of the game
and before I can apologise
she tells me she’s made up a song
for our reserve team goalkeeper.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
The mirror is actually a hatch
leading into a pub’s kitchen.
The chef with a beard is not
calling himself useless
or wondering why anyone
around him are even there.
He’s holding a knife
with gentle fingers that take
their time over ingredients
he feels lucky to have.
He doesn’t hate the carrot,
he wants the carrot to be
at its very best.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
He’s inside the laptop screen in a café,
for a meeting about the quarterly figures,
unaware his colleague cannot find her headphones.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
Here he comes, back with his name:
new moustache, crap goalie gloves.
He looks good having been dead,
drinks shit lager still.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
My friend’s name walks into the bar,
asks everyone how they are,
can’t recognise me.
Alive again, he
died, 16,
woke my heart.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
In the pub walks my school friend’s name,
thick, moustachioed, not the same.
It’s old enough for grandchildren,
exaggerates its footy game.
I drink a pint for 19 years,
see his face in a photo frame.
The walls turns 12.30am.
It’s cold. I see its smile again.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
Good evening, says my school friend’s name,
Ready to ignore me with his new moustache
And thicker waist in the pub.
Everyone talks about how the name is still alive.
My right hand holds 19 years in a pint glass,
Each sip the taste of a memorial tree outside a school.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
A name
will walk into
a bar. Thick, blood pumping.
I’ll drink 19 years. We won’t talk.
Blissful.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
There once was a school friend’s name
That didn’t quite seem the same
It never spoke to me
Was cold and ghostly
And exaggerated its goalkeeping game
© Carl Burkitt 2023
Thick, moustachioed,
The name talks, but not to me.
Blissful ignorance.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
Carl tells tales 