deepundergroundpoetry.com
It’s not where you’re from, it’s where you’re at
We drive through flats
that are more grime
than home
it’s where we’re at—
at the supermarket
where yellow stickers
dishonour good food
in a way it doesn’t deserve.
There were two food banks
on the way
but it’s exactly
where we’re at
filling a trolley to a tenth
of its capacity until
a stomach reminds
a human how little
the body needs
to survive
.
.
.
I struck gold today.
Mussels in a black net bag
reduced to clear
and we drive past those food banks
on the way back to the house
in this town that holds no glamour,
closed shutter-doors slick
with Thatcher’s stench
.
.
.
I’m slowly teaching myself
the blessing
of place
the unexpected
enough
like that time
we steamed mussels
on a Saturday, and ate
like humble kings.
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