Poem

1

Camperdown’s for dogs,
Friday evening in the park off Church Street

a barefoot man
carries a plank:

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Old age is not my problem. Bad health, yes.
If I were well again, I’d walk for miles,
My name a synonym for tirelessness.
On Friday nights I’d go out on the tiles:
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A flash like silver cufflinks
ribbons off into river grass:
a fluid lick of nickel,
the sidle and slather of eel.

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The house is up for tender and will be sold.
Houses always sell
– in the end. Even if it is
for the land. Smoking out or treading down
the haunts takes three days, or even longer.

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The octopus is dead
who lived in Wylies Baths
below the circus balustrade
and the chocked sea tiles.

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I left anyway, in spirit
dreamed I was living my own life
my mind was on exits, I tried to buy the truth
some nights until I ran out of dark

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Searching for his crowd
out of the silence of the cloister,
black robes tousled by the nor’-wester,
first bite of heat caught on the brim

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'Tide: My Father’s Dementia', a new poem by Mike Ladd. ... (read more)
'Convocation', a new poem by Gareth Robinson. ... (read more)