Efi Hatzimanolis #189 The Tugger

the veer off, sets the course, again,
like that supermarket trolley 
with the bung wheel, a mind of its own
chasing its tail, tugging your arms, 
the struggle to straighten up, the mongrel
heads down the chip aisle,
you’re lassoed into an inescapable 
orbit, too far gone, past the half way point
in pursuit of chips, so you continue
in a stop start torture among the jars,
finally, abandoned to the cold cuts
empty in its fantasy of being a vessel
for a poem, but I admit the bugger 
has form, totally, as a personal shopper