12. CW’s poem to AL

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.