The Wife Is Poorly (The Shopping Is Down To Me) Poem by Ian Bowen

Soft music plays about the ear, shelves fit to bursting.
Youngsters push mile-high trolleys, ready to replenish.
Suited and booted managers avoiding the elderly,
goosestep isles, overseeing pompous delegation.

The icy climes of the cold shelves, icicle stab the heart.
In-store bakery, wafts warm aroma of yeasty cake.
Devoid of blood, meat and fish, lie clean pink and white.
Damaged cans sit half priced, in dented pride of place.

Myriad of coloured milk tops, bemuse… no gold top now!
Cheeses from Cheddar to Turkey, priced by distance.
Fowls lie stone-hard dead, rigor-mortised in mists of frost.
Red versus white wines, battle for supremacy.

I have walked down the isle, even found the Carnation.
My heaving trolley wheels scream enough! Begging check-out;
They punish me by steering their own chartered course.
In my inability to control, I crash the ‘buy one get one free.’

Now comes the fear, my brain fused into overdrive of dread.
Will I have an unpriced item? Will they ring the bell on me?
Those waiting behind, will hate me for my heinous crime,
Their lemon -sucked faces, may sour my fresh cream slice.

The biggest worry now, even worse than wartime telegrams,
letters from the bank or wasps at a picnic.
Have I overspent? My goods bigger than my wallet?
Will I have to return my Turkish cheese and pink-top milk?

If the case, my face will match my red Italian tomatoes.
My body heat will rise, like my foreign peppers.
Hands will be as clammy as my polythene wrapped, German ham.

This is hopefully the last time I shop,
for I am...

an inexperienced man.