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In Woolies
A small boy cries, bird calling into the air.
I’m heart helped by his flower delicate face,
bamboo smooth then raw as meat,
his emotions entirely there.
Mums are preoccupied, abundance is a list.
Brows creased, they don’t look up,
their beauty worry worn.
I like the Muzak, whistle along,
wide eyed as a canary.
One aisle is traffic jammed.
and a little old man
waits like a garden gnome.
There should be dancing, the music's jaunty,
but no, only muted ‘excuse me’s’
as trolleys clash.
