Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

At Ploshad Vosstaniya, Ena says Our thieves are very clever.
She carries her bag close to her chest, heads
through the crowds to the escalator, no idea of the risk.
Of satellite and cable, Durex and Coke on MTV,
Lee jeans, dishwashers, Pedigree Churn,
Sunflower perfume by Elizabeth Arden,
milkshakes in strawberry, banana and vanilla,
drink one for breakfast, a second for lunch,
then eat a proper dinner.
It’s a piece of America, it’s Hershey’s, it’s all right.

On the local news, they show four time zones.
Between inflation and the weather, a model steps out
of a burgundy Morgan, in a scarlet, backless, silk dress.
On the radio, there are razors for him
and razors for her, crispbreads to share with friends.
In a cordon round the airport Lenin after Lenin
points a huge concrete finger towards the West,
towards ten foot high cowboys, riding the range,
iced Smirnoff and trainers. Just do it.
It’s a piece of America, it’s Hershey’s, it’s all right.

In leather jackets and fake Oakley’s, teenage boys
stake out the queues at hotel exchanges, pimp and protect,
while Motorola and Phillips refurbish and rebuild, collectors
buy folk art at half what it’s worth, revolutionary posters
and Finnish ceramics, pictures by Benois and Rabin.
And Ena’s bag contains very little, a few Metro tokens,
a pale pink lipstick, the key to a room in a communal fiat,
a couple of thousand roubles. But she is pretty, too pretty,
and on unlit streets that’s the worst kind of danger,
a voice from the shadows and it’s too late to run.
It’s a piece of America, it’s Hershey’s, it’s real life.