The Queue
How sad to see the line of lonely
people in the queue for ‘one basket only’
buying Pot Noodles and Heinz Baked Beans,
Boil-In-The-Bag Rice and tinned sardines.
The student full of spots and specs
Cursed by the hex of solo sex
wonders if his love life will
be improved by Clearasil.
The singleton with her Tampax,
racked with nerves and panic attacks,
tries to focus on her career
whenever there’s a pushchair near.
The accountant on his lunchbreak,
takes a sandwich to the lake;
a tiny retreat from his boring life
of dead ambition and nagging wife.
The widow demands all the latest goss:
as much as poss to forget her loss.
She hasn’t noticed as others do:
that she’s still buying meals for two.
The swinger with his hair greased back,
in faded slacks and anorak,
buys condoms for his bed-hopping
nights of drugs and wife-swapping.
The strange lady who’s not quite right
in night attire and tights too bright
lives in a schizophrenic haze
of tobacco-stained and gin-soaked days
The old man on his final length
with his six-pack Tennent’s Extra Strength:
meeting oblivion is his mission
in front of daytime television.
‘One basket only’, ”Six items or less’
witnesses failure more than success.
But cruel life tries to make this true:
we’re bound to end up in the same queue.
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