Thursday, September 17, 2015

I almost kicked the bucket in a well-known high st mini supermarket


I almost kicked the bucket
in a well-known high st mini supermarket
On an unpleasant  rainy evening
I thought that I really was
about to pop my clogs
There was a poster of a woman with
 a well groomed golden Labrador there
She and the dog smiled because
they were allegedly content with
some product or other
She and the dog smiled as
my heart seemed to be surging
up into my mouth
She and the dog smiled as
 produce swam about before my eyes
I gripped the edge of a shelf
Like a limpet in an atlantic gale
I thought this cannot be
I am too important to my self
It is not the appropriate place
For the end of me
           This was not a good day to die
So I fought back against nausea and panic
“err I don’t feel well”,
I croaked to the manager
He brought me a plastic chair
And I sat on it sweating, and panting,
and gasping the air conditioned air
Staring at a tsunami of shoppers
Surging off fetid tubes and buses
Eager to buy dried pasta, tinned toms,
cheap booze and whatever
Stuff was described as food on the packaging
I watched this sharp elbowed scramble
As my heart slowed down
This was not a good day to die
even if poets are traditionally supposed
to suffer from consumption


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