This poem is taken from Stand 217, 16(1) March - April 2018.

Stuart Pickford Four Poems
On Being Dead

Gas off, a snatch of headlines.
My son offers me a cheek to kiss.

On the corner, I know ice’s mischief.
The hill by the hospital is free.

A tired bag of dog waste
dangles from the owner’s hand.

As I coast by misty allotments,
tall sheds drift away,

wheelhouses setting off to sea.
High-viz haunts the morning,

cordons off a block of fog
along the verge. One glance—

I pedal through. My bike slumps
across a door as I dash in.

And you’re there, hugging me.
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