We stand waiting
Outside the Sunday supermarket
In the chilly drizzle
Across the car park
The silver panel van teaches me
A new word: “Cabinetry”
Under the canopy
Half listening to conversations
Face full of smoke
Of a man in a small house
Who would never have moved
From opposite the church
A mother arrives
Her small boy orbiting her ankles
Baby above the trolley
The boy is troubled
That people hunt and kill things
For no good reason
An older woman’s face
Takes on that melted happy sad look
Looking at the baby
I stand and ponder
Upon these things I’ll never understand
Then the doors open
Martin
A W Holmes, March 2017
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