I doubt you ever heard of Sertraline – which isn’t a bad thing. I imagine you thinking it’s the name of a Star Wars villain or Chelsea’s new centre forward. I don’t take it because you died, but the fact I carve out two hours every year on your birthday to drink beer alone and text the mobile number that ended with you 22 years ago might mean I need a bit of help getting over it – which isn’t a bad thing. Your moped accident is the reason I don’t drive. I’ve only ever told three people that, one of whom charged me £65 an hour to sit on a navy blue IKEA Poang armchair in Brixton, avoid her eye contact, and explain how you were the worst goalkeeper I ever played with. When asked why I’ve never even had a driving lesson, I say, “Just can’t be bothered” or “Saving the environment, mate – I’m a hero!” I’ve never told anyone the reason I don’t drive is because I cannot trust myself to stay alive. Our school year are not allowed to die until we’ve tasted everything that was stolen from you. I find it difficult looking at my son on the 31 August. There’s an IPA on the pub’s chalkboard menu called ‘If Only’ that I’m tempted to try, and the landlord recommends the dill and jalapeño crisps. Arsenal are playing Liverpool at 4.30pm today and I’m hoping for a goalkeeping error for a chance to cry for you – which isn’t a bad thing.

Carl Burkitt 2025

I am still in that limo
ready for our year eleven prom.
My black bow tie has been knocked over
by the whiff of my Foster’s breath.
You live in the foreground
waving out the window as we pull out
of the driveway of your family home
and we take the piss out of your floral tie.

I am still in that limo
watching Arsenal drawing with Brighton today.
My four year old son is next to me on the sofa
and I’m explaining that goalkeepers are the bravest
because everyone’s mood rides on them.

I am still in that limo
standing in a muddy field in the 1990s
as you pull the ball out of your net
for the sixth time that afternoon.
Your smile is as white as the gloves
you are pounding together
encouraging your defenders to keep going.

I am still in that limo
walking through a snowy Berlin
with men you once rode school buses with
and slapped with wet towels after swimming.
Each crunch of my walking boots is
the tut of Mr Collingridge telling us to shush
at the back of the German classroom.

I am still in that limo
drinking in a Welsh pub with Sunday league adults
who don’t know you. I’ve not seen you
for five months since we went in different directions:
me to sixth form, you to a Mercedes apprenticeship.
Bottles of Orange Reef and Smirnoff Black
clink to the tune of a Nokia 3210 ringtone:
it’s a lad from back home in Swindon
telling me you came off your moped.

I’m still in that limo
sitting on the grassy mound of our primary school
swapping my packet of ready salted Walkers
with your packets of cheese and onion Walkers.
We wonder what it’s like to kiss a girl.
We wonder what big school will be like.
We wonder if we’ll be mates forever.

I am still in that limo,
the picture of us ready for our year eleven prom
is printed in local newspaper and shown
on National TV news channels
next to headlines explaining three years later
how you’d still be alive today
if doctors acted appropriately.

I am still in that limo
walking into our reception class playground.
Chris tells me that your name is Graeme.
Chris tells you that my name is Carl.
We look into each other’s eyes
and walk in different directions
because making new friends is boring.

I am still in that limo.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Here he comes, back with his name:
new moustache, crap goalie gloves.
He looks good having been dead,
drinks shit lager still.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

My friend’s name walks into the bar,
asks everyone how they are,
can’t recognise me.
Alive again, he
died, 16,
woke my heart.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

In the pub walks my school friend’s name,
thick, moustachioed, not the same.
It’s old enough for grandchildren,
exaggerates its footy game.
I drink a pint for 19 years,
see his face in a photo frame.
The walls turns 12.30am.
It’s cold. I see its smile again.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Good evening, says my school friend’s name,
Ready to ignore me with his new moustache
And thicker waist in the pub.
Everyone talks about how the name is still alive.
My right hand holds 19 years in a pint glass,
Each sip the taste of a memorial tree outside a school.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

A name
will walk into
a bar. Thick, blood pumping.
I’ll drink 19 years. We won’t talk.
Blissful.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

There once was a school friend’s name
That didn’t quite seem the same
It never spoke to me
Was cold and ghostly
And exaggerated its goalkeeping game

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Thick, moustachioed,
The name talks, but not to me.
Blissful ignorance.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

My school friend’s name walks into a bar: thick, moustachioed, blood pumping through its heart. It orders the weakest lager it can remember pretending to like and sits on a secure seat. The name has lived long enough to have grandchildren and is exaggerating its skill as a goalkeeper to the tired locals. The name talks, but not to me. It does not recognise my chin or the way I laugh half as much as I used to. My right hand is holding a pint of 19 years and the empty chairs around me are filled with ghosts from the outskirts of London, Poland, the old town of Swindon. The walls are 12.30am and my friend’s name looks cold. Its arm hurts, but I can just make out its smile, the size of a tree planted outside a school gate or a double decker bus filled with blissful ignorance. 

© Carl Burkitt 2023