Minimal 1 Poem by Aneta Popova

It was 10 a.m.
we were the early customers
he was shouting
the salesman
loudly
behind the shadow of his guilt
with the bullets of sorrow
swimming towards his nose
the paranoid lunatic
couldn't move
we grabbed the carton box with
marmalade jars
legged the exit
they fell and crashed
and fireworks
in our eyes
they were bleeding
for a couple of seconds
then we ran away
with the ripped up box
We had to take something.