Her basket swung from the crook of her arm
As she browsed the blush of the apples and pears,
Wincing under the halogen lights, and waiting
To reach the aisle with the books and pens.
Trolley wheels squeak in the bean tin row
And a toddler screams at the till for sweets
That a mother knows is a terrible idea.
She grabs the shampoo, the gin and the frozen chips,
Anything to leave as quick as she can.
She only went out for a bunch of grapes
But that place, it grates on the nerves like nails
On a blackboard chalked up with arrogant sums.
She won’t go back, she thinks as she eats
The chips with her glass full to the top
With a brain soothing gin, like a surgery on
Her mind that will spasm with the darkest of pain.