A poem I wrote in the queue at Primark yesterday about something that was happening right before my eyes.
A man is queued up
To buy baby shoes.
The shop is really
Cheap, those booties cost
Less. There is mud on
His shoulder and neck.
Baggy t-shirts don’t
Cover the dead veins,
As he passes the
Checkout girl the cash.
I catch a glimpse and
The banknote’s Scottish.
The shoes he can’t buy,
The size of condoms
His drugs are smuggled
In, back on the shelf.
I check the size on the jeans I’m buying.
I probably looked far more insane than the man in the poem - standing on one leg, leaning on the other, scribbling down this horrible moment.
