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

. . . the shoes, the shoes, remember the shoes the
whoosh 
                                               of recognition . . .

“It’s four o’clock in five or ten minutes,” and it smells of
                                                                the big things
We need to talk about, even fruit machines occupy
                                                                Infinity,

The chance red cherry, lucky green seven (my favourite),
                                                             the chance
Encounter with financial gain.  “It’s him again,” this
                                               afternoon’s not
Going according to plan.  Anyone’s plan.  You can throw
                                                  the notes out too.

. . . too difficult to take in and, “who’s your lawyer? You’ll
                                                   need a good brief.”

Not red shoes but cherry brown, a black scuff towards the
                                                             left toe-end.
He’s as full of chatter and whirr as that brassy, gaudy
                                                            machine.

We all lose our money somewhere: all the way down the
                                                                    back
Of the sofa with a snag if it’s a sofa-bed, visible but 
                                                           irretrievable;
Well, this does it for me, arms not long enough, fingers
                                                                   too thick,

I’ve not the tools, I’ll blame them.  And the brown, shiny
                                                                           shoes.