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.