Chips

by Jenny Walker

It is our night, so we buy chips
and grin guiltily over the greasy wrapper
at each other, crumpling yesterday’s paper in our
sticky, unharnessed hands.
We are fools for love and salt
and we see that it is good.

Our feet scatter stars in the inky black,
with the click-clack clatter that’s classed
so coolly cosmopolitan these days.
They have lit up all the lights for us,
for our arms and lips and eyes wide open
to drink it all in. But,

bending at the waist at the pavement’s gutter,
clutching each other on the dark street corner –
Sudden vertiginous precision
finds the old woman with the cataract vision,
cramming the memories into her mouth in
salty handfuls and smacking her lips.