Knickers to chips & salt
We’re past
the point of reinventing,
growing
older in our big knickers,
snoozing while
we check in with TV,
a cigarette
butt tattooing our hand.
Newspapers
don’t teach us anything new,
we know
before we peruse the pages.
In times
old we wrapped chips inside,
pecked at
them with wooden forks.
You could
count on the turn of the tide
back then, the
sea that always came in,
beating
against the walls containing it,
tempting us
out, to follow it somewhere.
But we never
left this town in the end,
stayed
while friendships up and left,
seeking
adventure or a different life,
something to
wish upon, call their own.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, March 12, 2021
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