The end of the world. A poem by Neil O’Sullivan

The arteries of aisles
Are plaqued with shoppers
The flow now trickles to near drip
Outside a leaf rotates
A serene descent

A lone woman shuttles
From sliding door
Trolleying her prizes
The rain ignores her
The bootloading pattern to come
Consumes her

Behind her, by the languid register
An angry couple prepare to bag
The woman quietly screams
Instructions at her children
Who refuse to be obedient stone

Her husband, a competent,
Somewhat kind IT manager
A compliant footstool in the bedroom
Patiently swipes away
Another days work

The teenage wasteland
Sitting at the register
Observes the typical charade
Chinging through the aperture
Thinking of the coming smoke break
And the bitch manning aisle three
Who sliced her this morning
With dagger eyes
For who knows what transgression

From the ceilings point of view
Partially formaldehyde
Utterly dispassionate
Observing the opera below
Scanning itself impatiently
Through a claustrophobic point of sale

To be reborn through automatic slide
Into whatever disaster zone
Awaits these strange creatures outside
This is all so very beautiful
Every minute coming to an end.

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