The Supermarket. Poem by Steve Caine

The Blue Rinse Brigade.

A Supermarket Sweepstake,
Or maybe Rugby Scrum,
Thursday afternoon!
Getting shopping done.

Walking through the electric doors,
Just past the peas,
When a Blue Rinse Brigade Pensioner,
Brought me to my knees.

Basket right before her,
Handbag on one side,
She swung round to grab some veg,
Bringing tears to my eyes.

Silver wheels on Grannies heels,
Whizzing up the aisles,
Screaming kids and chatting Mums,
Stand parked by Baked Bean piles.

No one seems to give a care,
Or get out of the way,
Some sort of hypnotic trance,
On their go-slow holiday.
Off to a land of two for one,
Or buy one get one free,
Both seem very much the same,
When you take the time to read.

Pushing along my trolley,
Three wheels one astray,
Weaving through the shoppers,
Blood boiling away.
I looked back over my shoulder,
At the Stock Car race behind.
There stood thirty Grannies,
In determined grimaced face,
Waiting for the chequered flag,
To begin their frantic race.

Someone dropped a box of eggs,
False start! But they were off!
Baskets! Trolleys! All over the place,
In a blur of corduroy cloth.
Grabbing for the Toilet Rolls,
Bon Bons and Denture Paste,
Steel blue eyes in American Tan Tights,
Ruled this fluorescent place.

I made it to the checkout,
Got there just in time,
As what seemed a thousand pensioners,
Jostled in the line.
I paid with my credit card,
Collected all my points,
counted all my bruises,
whilst checking all my joints.

I walked to the car, put the shopping in the back,
Turned the key and took a breath,
Then drove out of my space.
Only to be cut up by a pensioner,
With a big smile on her face!