Three robot arms
is the only answer to the question
how did you carry everything:
football kits, pop-punk albums,
empty crisp packets put back in the cupboard,
lifts from to the train station, lifts to
the train station, new bikes, stolen bikes,
new bikes, twisted ankles, hospital trips,
the weight of being Father Christmas.
Do you remember when I got mustard in my eye?
It must’ve taken the strength of three robot arms
not to laugh and focus on distracting me
from the fire. Three robot arms: one on the left,
one on the right, one in place of your spine.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There’s an advertising placard
at Stockport County’s football ground
that says POTATOES! in big bold letters.
A man has his top off behind the sign
and is encouraging the home fans to squat
to their knees and slowly rise and slowly rise
and slowly rise and WEEEEEEEEEEEEEY!!!!
they jump to the sky with their arms up.
POTATOES! sits underneath their flying feet
and I’ll look at anything to ignore the scoreline.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

You’re trying
to put the leaves back
on the tree they fell from.
You can’t reach, but who cares,
you’re stretching
further than your bones.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s offering a pink and white
striped bag of pick and mix around
to the left, the right, behind, and in front
of his blue chair to fellow home fans.
People up and down the aisle are waiting
for their turn to be passed the sweets,
wondering which they’ll take
and practicing what they will say:
Wonderful stuff! or Just the ticket!
or Thank you kindly, sir! or Get in!
I think a goal might have just been scored,
no one’s watching the game.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The boys look like Jack Grealish,
all calves and curtains. They are
standing around the café toilets laughing,
showing each other videos of people
falling over on their phones. An older man
looks my way and rolls his eyes, folds
his newspaper and slips it under his armpit
to stomp his way toward the door
like a cartoon of older man in a huff.
The squad of Jack Grealishes move aside
and apologise. One of them opens the door.
The old man doesn’t say thank you.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They look scary
or scared, as if there’s a difference.
I like the droopy one
at the back of the display,
as if melted from thinking
too much.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I’m looking over a wall
into a stranger’s garden
because my eyes are tall.
There’s a green plastic slide
covered in mould, greener
than the green of the green
plastic slide. It looks like a tree
has a cold and sneezed
its leaves absolutely everywhere.
I can see a trampoline, a football,
a vegetable patch, a broken pogo stick.
I’m looking at the path because
my feet keep taking my eyes
away from what excited them.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The cashier hands me back my bank card
and the tips of our thumbs collide.
We feel our bones connect
like a Right Said Fred head-butt
and I’m desperate to tell him
I am in more pain than he’ll ever know.
He thanks me for popping in
and goes back to doing things with his day.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Written in a Lewis Buxton workshop

Yellow mimics
the sound of a Formula 1 car,
the exposed brick café explodes
with teeth and cheekbones.
Yellow has new walking boots,
lines up toy fire engines
on an invisible table top carpark,
orders a disappointing looking
chocolate muffin because yellow
believes in sleeping giants.

© Carl Burkitt 2022