The Places We Live In Inhabit Us

In this gleaming black city
cut by green and blunted by
the downwind reek of breweries’
sweet malt, a slowing train
clack-clack-clacks
into the low station
insistent as a snare drum
and as harsh on the ear.
In deep back streets,
like the slapping down of
raw sausage after sausage,
car tyres flap-flap-flap
over part-domed cobbles.
A gust draws a finger along
a narrow kerbside puddle,
and bits of paper and torn plastic
become creatures of the wind.

Sam Smith