She asks what he’s reading.
Nothing, he says.
She waits, then keeps walking.
He looks up from his book,
not reading a thing.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The band will form
in a dying town. Matthew on drums,
Matty on bass, Matt on guitar, Doug on vocals.
Their songs will focus on fried breakfasts,
farming, omelettes, and other topics
that mean the world to them.
When they’re not recording, they’ll sit
on a filthy beach and learn how to drink.
Matthew won’t speak. Matty will skim stones.
Matt will take his top off. Doug will see
lyrics of loss in abandoned seashells
and not know what to do with them.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

we are crabs
chatting about the importance of life rings.
You ask my why buoys are called buoys
and I don’t pretend to know
and remind you
to protect your chips
and the soft side of your soul
from seagulls.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I wonder if Pele or Maradona
ever had to sit and wait this long for anyone
and a sweat attacks me
with the thought of anyone hearing
me, for a second, compare myself
to Pele and Maradona. I am thirsty,
but cannot swallow a my brain.
You are currently caller number 9.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

thanking that teacher who, back in the day,
refused to let you go down the wrong path –
the bloke with a beard like the rough side
of a sponge and sense of humour of a character
in a Lee Mack sitcom. Michael asks what you were
like as a child and you make a joke about not being
very interesting until you got to college
but I remember the way you would line up you
charity shop toy cars into living room length
traffic jams, how you knew everyone’s
favourite colour, how you would celebrate
spotting the first letter of your cousin’s name
in shop signs or drain covers. I remember
the way you thought raising one finger
was a thumbs up and couldn’t sleep
without an audiobook. Michael asks what
your parents were like and you stare directly
down the camera.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I’ll get this one.
No, I’ll get this one.
No, let me get this one.
But you got the last one.
Yeah, but you got the first two.
Yeah, but you and Debra held the BBQ.
Yeah, but you and Margaret sorted the gig tickets.
Yeah, but you bought the train tickets.
Yeah, but you
Yeah, but
Yeah

© Carl Burkitt 2023

They’re comparing how drenched they are –
the chap in the Zabaleta 5 shirt, the beard
in the Keith Curle jersey, the couple in white vests
and navy jeans and light blue running shoes,
the family in matching black and red away kits
with their shared surname #3 on their backs.
They’re swapping photos on phones across
the pub of their team’s open top bus treble
trophy celebration in the only rain of the day
and the years they’ve been waiting to share this
with each other, the town, themselves.
The barman asks what they’ve got
to look forward to now and they say nothing
for several sips of Monday lager
and talk about the weather.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

the man in front of me at the cafe –
he just asked for brown sauce
and the teenager behind the counter
gave him five sachets of brown sauce
and he had the confidence to say
I’ll only need two brown sauces, thanks,
and handed three brown sauces back. He didn’t
quietly accept five brown sauces and
awkwardly throw three brown sauces away
after only eating two brown sauces
wishing he was a better person. I bet he has
his financial documents in plastic wallets
and lays his clothes out for the next day.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The pub is empty
except for my body and the conversation
between the landlord and himself.
He’s counting the beermats on the tables
and the dust-covered wine glasses.
The dead chairs look at me and ask,
What’s wrong with us? What kind of chairs
does next door or the bar by the station have?
Why are we not trusted to hold people?
Is it because we ask difficult questions,
check in when they don’t feel ready to reply?
Is it because the windows in here are large,
open, welcoming? Are we too old? Too chatty?
I don’t know if I’m the right person to answer,
I’m the sort of guy who thinks chairs can talk to him.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

to The Streets song the feet of the geezer
in the corner of the pub are tapping along to.
He sips his drink until it no longer exists,
rearranges his hair in the reflection of the glass
and heads to the bar. He orders another pint
and she keeps singing. She doesn’t say anything
to him. She just keeps singing and pours
the lager, pints at the price on the chalkboard
takes his change and gives a thumbs up.
He thanks her and she keeps singing
until confusion send him on his way
and the interactions poem can be only be
a blow-by-blow account of an event
with no hidden message. And she knows it.

© Carl Burkitt 2023