New poetry by author Erik Kennedy.
Out on the Pleasure Pier
Out on the pleasure pier on that benign afternoon,
the air heavy with the blossom of vinegar and old tyres,
you asked what was the closest I had come to death.
I thought of when I had applied the bolt-cutters
to that big machine’s cord.
I considered some inglorious public collapses.
But I didn’t know, I said. It was probably
something I wasn’t even aware of, I said.
Something that passed me by, like a parcel bound
for Ash Hill instead of Ash Mill, I said.
On the pier, two good-looking people passed us by,
complementing our goodness.
Two ugly people passed us by,
complementing our ugliness.
It could be happening now, you said.
Another scurfy wave glided shoreward languidly.
That’s the thing about what you don’t know, I said.
It could always be happening now.