Tell it to do one,
think of a witty quip
like the New York detective
you have been watching all week.
Show it your teeth, use them
to growl and finally eat
a thick, toasted cheese sandwich.
Offer it a bite. After all,
you were raised to be polite.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Bags-under-the-eye-grey,
skin with enough friction,
flesh soft like a Sunday.
The Legend. You sit, shaped
like a handgun or a thumbs
up in the middle of the room.
Sweat paints the walls, chest
bones are twice their weight,
cushions wrap themselves
around limbs like a gardener’s
hand lifting a fallen bird from the grass
behind a house from the past, the TV playing
cartoons, the air a roast dinner and the
whisper of your product name. The Legend.
You will never get called a sofa in this flat.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The sun kissed a stranger.
The moon punched a balloon.
A crack between the wall and the doorframe
grew wide enough for a soul to fall in.
A Glaswegian parrot turned up.
The leaves over the road waved
goodbye to each other every morning.
Tarmac gave up.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Yep.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

It’s 2am and his bed is sweat. Colin is
ex footballer Gary Neville’s dad,
Neville Neville. He is on a sport podcast,
chatting about the importance of hard work
over talent, recounting his days as a lorry driver,
how he would get up at 4am to drop off
furniture in Davenport so he could get back
to Manchester by 11am and volunteer
at the local cricket club, then pick his kids up
from school to take them to football
and netball club. He is convincing people
he came back to life to tell his children
he’s so proud of them. Meredith and Christina
ask Colin to scrub in and do the appendectomy
surgery for them. An emergency has come up
but they cannot tell him what. It’s 3am.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He hasn’t scored for nearly six weeks,
his goal bonus sits in the coffers
of a club he can’t remember signing for.
He’s read a bit too much
about the side effects of heading a ball
and the lads on the wings just can’t
get it to his feet. There’s a good chance
his legs aren’t getting him to the box
as fast as they used to. His mind wanders.
When he pulls on the famous white shirt
he thinks about the gods that once wore it.
He looks up at the clouds when the whistle goes
and thinks he can hear them talking
about how they always pictured him in goal
with arms like that. His mind wanders.
He likes looking at the grass. His mind wanders.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

You walk
through the kind of day
that birds tackle
two worms at a time,
the moon hangs out
with the sun until brunch,
Labradors poo
on a street bin
like they know how
to read its sign,
toddlers learn
how to say
This coffee shop is beautiful.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Lads gather:
All biceps on tattoos,
Curly hair underneath
Red and white woolly hats spidering its way
On to foreheads,
Square jaws,
Shoulders wider than goalposts. It’s
Early for a weekend. They
Smell like eggs and ale and strawberry vape.
They’re here to twat each other
In the name of sport. But first a
Catch up, how are yous,
Kisses on cheeks before kick off.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Not knowing what to do with himself
he peeled off his skin like a wet suit,
gave it a shake, and watched the dust
and crumbs and fluff sprinkle off
like sand and salt from beach days
he always promised her they’d have.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The tarmac is hard enough
to remind your hips they are alive.
Surprise surprise, they scream,
you didn’t take care of the muscles
that drag you through the day.

© Carl Burkitt 2023