May 10, 2018
Supermarket Sweep, by Chris Walsh
I sit in my car
outside the supermarket
too sick to go home.
Not knowing where home is.
I watch people arrive and leave
with all their crap.
Lugging booze to cars
with serious faces,
very short haircuts.
Boys and booze, lobbing the shit in the boot,
barely old enough to drive,
revving red hot hatches
with lowered suspension
and exhaust pipes which crackle
and scare old ladies.
Not very eco-friendly.
A manifesto for immortality.
I once made my friends laugh
by pointing surreptitiously
at a person on the tube with a huge suitcase.
I whispered to them that the suitcase contained
all the shits she had ever done in her life.
Keeping them was her hobby.
It wasn’t a very nice to thing to say, on balance.
I was a little twat
without lowered car
or snapping exhaust.
I get out of my car and go inside.
There is a fat security guard who is bald
with a ponytail at the back.
Mums and daughters.
Men. Everyone is fat, or too thin. Sick looking. Gross.
I go straight to the wine aisle, pick a red.
I scan it at the self-service.
A young lady checks I’m old enough,
though she doesn’t even look.
I’m thick with middle age. It’s obvious.
I pass the fat security guard again. His eyes are glazed.
I feel like nicking something.
I get in my car,
wonder what to do.
A beautiful woman leaves the store with a trolleyfull
and opens the car next to me.
She hasn’t seen me. I drink her in,
Imagine what it would be like.
Then I notice her trolley is full of toilet roll.