A thin layer of dust hiding under angled radars makes the plastic cup look like it’s
Moonlighting in a supermarket with frozen purpose and my other friend the taroof search
Wheeling past the slabs of the dead and the zombie choosers.
There isn’t enough energy to scream and push so gingerly I pick pushing
So that I can pace myself in the middle of the aisle and let the egg lights induce me.
At some point, going back will be an option but for now I can circle the store
Until it looks empty.
The laminated floor stretches under my feet, a retailer’s requiem
But it’s hard to trust its shifting squeak, its foam fantasy.
He would have trusted it, encouraged it, he of the modern persuasion
And the bathroom television, which he would never use. A kudos collection.
It’s a bleached box, and yes I denigrate it but still come to it with all my anxieties
Discarded in the trolley; a discount DVD and end of line lavender soap
Because no one likes the thin layer of dust but me.
And perhaps the old lady squinting under the makeup counter’s lamps.
Time travels in a Tesco’s, combinations lock my attention on clinging
Products that evolution entertains; this DVD looks dubious
But I’ll take it home anyway, as my metaphor for normality
A motion of madness, crisp like the focus of the till.
Expelling myself from the tomb of abundance
Ungrateful, remorseful, deceived in the art of purchase
The soap I’ll use, the film just a sacrifice to the gods of