Anna Ward-Gow

A Poem About a Man With No Legs

He’s old
and he sits on a plastic white
garden chair, at the end of your street.
You’ll see him with a cigarette –
most hours. But the man has
no legs.

Half-limbed, semi-skimmed,
his stumps raise red as he stubs
his cigarette. And you wonder
why he chooses the flames to his
lips, the power – to turn the tables –
lights to his fingers.
He holds on longer than he has to.

Bar Flies

A man puts Anna
On the jukebox:
Complains his straw
Is limp.

A kiss under the
Mistletoe of my cherry skirt,
May I? You flirt
A tiny tip is going to hurt.

Too poor, these wings
Are raw
Where is the water
I asked you for?

About the Author

Anna Ward-Gow recently graduated from her Master’s in Creative Writing with Literary Studies from the University of Lancaster. Though she is predominantly a writer of prose, occasionally a poem will find its way out. She is from North Yorkshire and plays the banjo.