Poetry by Stephen Priest
TYING SHOELACES AT A CROSSWALK

Even though laces angle into ankhs,
there’s no question of the divine here,

just halfhearted halfheards
like, But the saddest thing of all

is we’ve all something to say.
No—what’s sadder is the thing

the child across the street scratching
his hair and holding his au pair’s hand

abides, but doesn’t get: the subcutaneous,
trawling murmur of a tick,

or, worse, the manner
of its host’s reply.

Stephen Priest is still, unfortunately, Stephen Priest. His work has appeared in 32 Poems, Barrow Street, The Birmingham Poetry Review, Subtropics and other print and online journals, and his first poetry manuscript has been shortlisted for a number of book awards.

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