A poem about the monotony of shopping. Or, more accurately, queuing.
© David Milligan-Croft.
“Counter number eight, please.”
The Tannoy instructs us
As the red arrow indicates right.
Shoppers shuffle down the aisle
One space at a time, sliding baskets
Along the ground with their feet.
The stainless steel grating against
The concrete floor, like the piped music
Against our ears.
Girls laden with fresh fruit
And yoghurt, trying to hide
Their large tubs of Häagen Dazs.
While men with Pot Noodles and rashers,
Ready meals and six packs,
Check-out girls’ behinds.
Cashiers blink to the beep
Of the scanner, their eyes ringing
Up the seconds till closing time.