Gentrification NaPoWriMo Day 18 Poem 14

Home is no longer
a murder mile, where I lay
in bed, mistaking gun shots
for fireworks at 1am.

Home is no longer
the cross fire of a turf war,
or a hooded 11pm shadow
in Lower Clapton with a blade
put to the warm vein in my neck.

Home is ordering gingerbread lattes and croissants
with smoked cheese and cherry-toms,
at a price that politely robs me.

Home is my buttoned up checkered shirt
cat-walking to Hackney Picture House,
at a price that politely robs me.