Wait for the slow crush
the doors open and we rush
in through the thirsty tills
tongues swollen and dry
shuffle along bare aisles
slide what fits, what exists
into loose pockets
a tin of peaches
Sugar, complex molecules
plastic pack of white wraps
Carbohydrate’s just a word
brown bottle of pesticide
The garden I tend at night
slim pickings but enough
to reach the next shell
we file out, orderly
like a deputation
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