His pocket coughs up
a torn out crossword from yesterday’s Metro.
His fingers stretch. His pen lid yawns
off the nib. His stomach braces itself
for the sweet chilli chicken wrap
his hand must’ve picked up
by mistake or as a cruel prank.
His phone sits next to a Costa coffee cup
and talks about the Rugby League,
the passionate commentary
mingles with 5 Across and 9 Down in his brain.
He cracks his neck and nods
at the tired man on the seat opposite him
wearing an optimistic floral shirt blowing kisses
at his confused son on the platform.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

My beard has been on my face
for over eight years and I’m still yet to find
the right cream to stop my chin from itching.
I first wore my beard in public
to a friend’s wedding. We sat on tables
in rows like long boats and drank
thick pints of sweet cider wearing sunglasses
because the sky was a bit too bright.
My nose was pink by the end of the day
and my arms danced as though
there were struggling to lift a heavy sword.
I can’t remember what we ate but
I dabbed my top lip more than ever before
because of my brand new moustache.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I like looking at miniature packets
of far too expensive for what they are
sweets in garden centres, you know,
like pear drops or fudge,
and imagining being the kind of person
who buys them for other people on a whim.
I just grabbed your Mum some humbugs,
I might say. Or, Dark chocolate gingers?
Darren would love those, let’s get some.
I see myself fishing them out of my backpack
later that day while talking about hydrangeas.
I’ll hand them over and shrug my shoulders
in a sort of, Oh, it’s nothing kind of way.
I don’t even mention the price.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

How many is too many?
I’m sat on a train with 20
or 30 or 700 football fans.
Six of them have crates of Corona
to hand out to squawking pals
when they’re dry, glass bottle beaks
to peck away the thoughts.
The colours of their shirts are fabulous;
blood reds, crane yellows, tractor greens.
The uniformed goalpost white trainers
across their feet keep the flock moving together.
The smallest is sat down, wearing all black, nursing a cup of tea, flying into the sun.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

It’s easy to forget
they’re not talking about me.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

You are already a railway worker,
a donkey impersonator,
a left-footed inverted wing back,
a Weetabix reviewer, a blink of an eye,
a breathing mannequin, a detective,
a midnight talker, a blackberry picker,
an alarm clock, a bullet to a former life.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Look at those little piggies
going to market, staying at home,
having roast beef, having none,
going wee wee wee all the way home.
Look at them in the back seat,
socks in the boot, toenails dancing
in time to a song about fire engines.
Look at those little piggies growing,
ten hairless sausages with knuckles.
Look at those little piggies,
pink aliens taking over the world.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He rummages in his Stockport County backpack
for his bag of Wine Gums, something sweet
to replace the tone on his tongue
as the pony tail of one his sons bobs
in the tense breeze in the stands and the other asks,
yet again, what the Liverpool score is.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

An old man called Carl has passed out
on TV. The high street is gasping
and the background music feels sad.
Luckily the woman pretending to be a nurse
has learned her script and confirms he’s breathing.
She’s upset when she gets home so eats steak
and drinks wine and does her best to small talk
with a colleague who’s just moved to town.
They have a lot in common. They run away
their problems and can’t stand the admin side
of their jobs. The night is warm, so they stay outside
under countryside stars in comfortable silence.
Tomorrow the old man will die
and the nurse will not have time to be upset
because her boyfriend has started drinking again.

© Carl Burkitt 2022