The man on the pub’s TV is yelling about
every single goal Gareth Bale has ever scored.
His commentary partner is calling him a freak,
a legend. Dragons are roaring in the crowd.
There’s a circle of vomit, about the size of
a digestive biscuit, sitting on the seat next to me.
I haven’t noticed it for 81 minutes.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

pulling a thorn out of his gums.
There is a lion in the quiet carriage
tap dancing with firework shoes.
There is a lion in the quiet carriage
playing drums with a machine gun,
blow drying his hair with a pneumatic drill,
doing karaoke with a foghorn.
There is a lion in the quiet carriage
throwing every plate that’s ever been made
into a cement mixer made of glass.
There is a lion in the quiet carriage
who needs a new set of headphones.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

You have eyes
for snacks that make you
ready to digest fear.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He is sitting alone
on a red chilli leather sofa
folding freshly printed menus
in the restaurant he owns.
He is wearing a white shirt
pressed as neatly as the napkins.
It is 8.30am, his hair is laminated
back with wet look gel. His chest
is the front door, desperate to open
and let you in.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The first driver has a son who was born
with three teeth in his mouth. The midwife said
she had never seen that before.
His other son is the type of guy
who knows when to leave a party
and is content playing alone.
He thinks I’ll like it at the health centre
because the people are nice and they
sorted his daughter’s in-growing toenail
with local anaesthetic and some kind of acid.
He wanted to know how long I’ve lived
in this area, if I have a network around
me, if I get the chance to enjoy hobbies.
The second driver drove us silently
for 30 minutes until the shop was visible.
This Waitrose better have a toilet. It does.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There’s a fluorescent green running coat
in a drawer with wheels under my bed.
I slide it on when my feet need to run
a day into a night. It was given
to me by cremated hands and fits
like a glove I never wanted to wear.
My son shouts Green coat when it’s on,
I look like the lime in secret a gin and tonic.
I hate it. I wish it was still in Newcastle
jogging slower than you would imagine
next to a Labrador who will never know
what happened. I still wear it though,
and I always will, because without death
I would never remember to throw my body
into an afternoon.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

She spends her time
walking across thin bits of conversation,
the bits that can suddenly tip you
into a ravine. But she is steady. She likes
the challenge of keeping things balanced,
and reminding him that chins are best
when they remember to stay up.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

wondering how it got there,
what it’s supposed to be doing,
how the horses and cows
appear to enjoy it being around
despite the thoughts splashing
away in its thick skull.
It could have landed anywhere:
the train station, the airport,
the carpark, the seaside,
but here it is in the farm, trying to breathe.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I’ll probably get a bottle of red wine in
and some Shloer depending
what my Google search of his tastes reveal.
I’ll ask him how long it took to regrow
the skin on his back after falling
off his bike on the TV show Superstars.
I’ll ask him who his favourite player was
to have a chitchat to over a cup of tea.
I’ll ask him if he was always confident
wearing his curls or if it took his Dad
telling him that they twist and bend
because his brain is magical soil
to convince him to just let it grow.
I’ll ask him about Hamburg.
I will not say I will love it if we eat them
when I lay a plate of cheese and crackers
in front of us all snuggled up on the sofa.

© Carl Burkitt 2022