Tesco Flash

A Sunday night poem in the style of Charles Bukowski, written in a hungry scent of garlic and herbs, called

Tesco Flash

A queue of hungry people

Sunday night

ovens on

other people already eating roast potatoes

drinking sherry in slippers

Late coming back from town, I collect my food

Elbows to attention in the bumbling crowd

heavy basket

standing in line

Hedging my bets:

A checkout woman

Fossilised

Dormant

Or a man tending two counters at once

dashing

sprightly

polite

two customers at a time

Like the Flash

scanning multipacks of crisps and beers

Not her

Him, I think - yes
Already, he’s done everything of mine, and theirs too

I say, I like your style

You’re good at this

A flash of white on brown

a happy crinkle of skin

Thanks, he says

I walk home smiling

With my leg of lamb

my middle class crumpets

my extraneous gladioli bristling like a Maasai spear

Bloody hell, I think

The leg heavy in my bag
, sore for garlic and thyme

Some life I’m living

Lucky sod

______

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