The silent tangles of shrunken jeans
had her panting beside late night shifts
omitting microscopic details at high speed
as he moved to power off automatic doors.
It wasn’t good enough. It simply wasn’t on,
having bought it but two days prior.
No meat should fall off the bone like that,
refrigerated bargain bucket or not.
Running back and forth the static door,
serving and sliding out isle drifters,
the day’s final restrained sigh
squeezed his top button to chin.
Taps shut it up; that persistent stream
of meandering detail, so minuet, airless,
braised, sliced and bubble wrapped
from her gut to anyone who would hear.
A receipt penetrated the slit of her purse
documenting detail and date,
each shopping trolley’s wheel scratching
the little amiability a refund retained.
Reaching for volume controls she battled
the noise of an empty home,
photo frames of catalogue cut outs and
telephone books of call center care.
There, he stuffed the security safe,
beeping alarms, looking to the moon,
reversing through car park gates,
padlocking to some, a world.