Stockport isn’t shit

The words are written on a tote bag
hanging on her left shoulder.
Her dress swings as if there’s a breeze.
She has pogo stick legs
and the eyes of someone who has looked
under every stone. There are no nooks
or crannies in this town without her fingerprint.
She pores over the menu with purpose,
there’s not enough time for a Usual.
A stranger walks in and she talks
like someone who’s had too many phone calls
late at night, when the vibration is sudden enough
to find a home in your bones.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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