Picaroon Poetry - Issue #13 - September 2018

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Ben Banyard Jim Ought to have retired eight years ago but he’s on the bus by 5am every morning, an apparition in orange high-viz. I see him around the city pushing his barrow. Stop to catch up with news, how everyone still lives in the same houses except the problem family with the wild kids who were moved on, and now there are no more police raids in the middle of the night. Imagine being 73 and picking litter in the rain. He always works overtime, barely takes a holiday, just the odd bacon sandwich at the depot to look forward to. And one day I’ll realise that I haven’t seen him for weeks, and wonder what that might mean. 24
Bethany W Pope (Dirty) You are a kind that is familiar in every nation, middle-aged, from the upper middle-class, with a Waitrose accent, expensive outdoorsy boots (unscuffed) and though you are balding, your skin has that sleek, buttery-smooth look that comes from regular spa-days. You are very tall, with a good, strong frame, which (I'm sure) you hope your boys inherit. Your wife is small, and just your age. Her gold-plated hair brushes her shoulders and every strand is daily hammered straight. Your children have perfectly blended features. They will be as attractive as you were, once. I know that you were attractive, once. It's written on your face. And there I was, facing you, facing your wife, reading the solid cost of your watch, the tasteful heft of her two rings (understated, elegant) with their terribly clear diamonds, telling you that (for once) you could not get exactly what you wanted. The film was rated fifteen. Your children were between thirteen and eleven. When I pointed out the sign with the law printed on it (laws passed by people sharing your accent which, if broken, would result in a fine — to be paid by myself — of two-thousand pounds) and asked for ID, you bent down between hunched shoulders and thrust your arched raptor's nose almost between my eyes, as though you'd like to gouge holes in my cheeks. Your spittle flew as you cawed your disbelief, 'Are you calling me a liar? My children are above the age. How dare you call me a liar you little foreigner!’ And that is when I called the manager. Minimum wage is not nearly recompense enough 25
Page 3 and 4: Issue #13 September 2018 Edited by
Page 5 and 6: This Month’s Rogue Poems ● Sept
Page 7 and 8: Sue Kindon Plague The inner sill is
Page 9 and 10: Attracta Fahy These Are the Days wh
Page 11 and 12: Darren C. Demaree bone requires bon
Page 13 and 14: How long, Oh Lord, until it suddenl
Page 15 and 16: Karen Little Supper Time When she o
Page 17 and 18: You wander back home, your mind num
Page 19 and 20: your sloppy sweater falls off your
Page 21 and 22: Linda Stevenson Profile Temporary p
Page 23: Emma Lee Naming the Colours “My f
Page 27 and 28: Kristin Garth Entertainers They pla
Page 29 and 30: Sally Kidd Exploration I stayed up
Page 31 and 32: Thomas Tyrell A Frightful Ballad of
Page 33 and 34: And then Old Boyce took up his lamp
Page 35 and 36: Jude Cowan Montague A Morncoat Trou
Page 37 and 38: Darrell Petska A Short History of C
Page 39 and 40: Douglas Cole The Doghouse You’ve
Page 41 and 42: Pru Bankes Price Almost a Love Lett
Page 43 and 44: Tobi Alfier Out of My League in Hon
Page 45 and 46: Michelle Hartman Ode to October a b

Picaroon Poetry - Issue #13 - September 2018

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