Tag Archives: Jared Chase

Jared Chase


In a din of whirl and thrum

and the chatter, bicker, natter,

whole families who are broke

and solitary suits

down on their luck just now

mill in this grainy brown carbuncle

with the chipped yellow sign—

sand white once, years ago,

when I had a teddy in one hand

and Mama’s finger in the other—

we, the salt of the earth in the grit

and the clean swill of Tide.

Kids take turns pushing the carts

and, bored, play pretend for hours

learning half by accident

how to count change, read a clock,

how to fold and wait and dream

while they push hot, wet laundry

to the wall of thundering dryers

and they push hot, dry laundry

to the tables for Mama to sort.

Back by the dumpster with a plastic bag:

two cans of no-brand soda sweat in the heat

bright packets of chips yellow the teeth,

three ten altogether from the wilting mart

up on the corner. We smoke Rez cigarettes

in shifts but, always, are drawn back in

and our veteran eyes keep glancing

at all but the clothes on our backs

churning in the Tide and the brine.

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Jared Chase is halfway through an associates degree at Erie Community College, writes too little and reads too much.

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