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
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
