Poetry

Saxby Pridmore: Four Poems

Our Street   Our poor mangy bloody street. If it was a dog you’d put it out   of its misery. As a puppy it was different—all floppy ears and slobber.   We were in and out of each other’s houses and no one cared   two hoots about the bloody carpet. But the biting fleas   of envy wore us down lowered our resistance   till someone gossiped and it went like wildfire. We’re not bad   just human. But our street’s got distemper and needs to be put down.   The Dead Sea   The water of the…

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