Legs flying out behind me,
soaring down the aisle.
Tea coffee jam honey biscuits cake.
Bottles clink in the trolley.
Losing speed, thud,
velcro comes undone.
Mum is speaking to the man behind the ham.
Captain Birdseye’s face is covered
by cream cheese, smoked salmon, mini pancakes
and a jar of little black dots,
all for ‘the girls’.
My dinner makes the jar steam up
like a car window you can draw on.
The girls are not little girls,
high heels make them wobble,
fizzy wine makes their boobs explode from their tops.
Tomorrow I’ll pick pancake out of the carpet.
I call them accidents
because that’s what mum calls me when I’m clumsy.
Maybe the man will come round after,
the man with all the faces,
the one that sometimes ruffles my hair.
I can put my TV from volume fifteen to thirty.
I forgot the ketchup.