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
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.
A man puts Anna
On the jukebox:
Complains his straw
A kiss under the
Mistletoe of my cherry skirt,
May I? You flirt
A tiny tip is going to hurt.
Too poor, these wings
Where is the water
I asked you for?
Anna Ward-Gow recently graduated from her Masters 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.