AN AMERICAN PLACE I KEEP
Today, all that holds me together is
light/ in occasional parallel stripes
of girls wearing tinted sunglasses sucking
on a strawberry sherbet, bending their height
slightly to look at old magazine racks, and
although the word ‘mountain’ is never used,
hair is everywhere. The short men who stare
at cars order cigarettes/ boys coax gum
out of forty year machines. White fingerprints
of the check out man braise receipts that are
yellow in colour.
Sarah Chapman lives and works in the rough part of East London. She has been writing poetry for a year and has been published in Pomegranate and Spilt Milk.