Midnight in ASDA


Midnight, and the witching hour fills ASDA’s half-lit submerged aisles,
Spilling over palettes stacked with bubble wrap. We walk for miles
And never meet a living soul – the people stacking shelves don’t count –
Just loaves of bread and coffee jars and sticky buns piled up in mountains.
Taking care we clamber round and check the now depleted shelves
For teabags, sugar, cat food, chilli – footsteps echo. By ourselves,
We head towards the cigarette kiosk. The checkouts lie in rows,
Unmanned, like coffins in a mausoleum, where a face we know’s
Engaged in some nocturnal mission, buying pork pies from the Deli,
In the catacombs of ASDA, ’cos there’s bugger all on telly.


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