“Cashier to checkout seven please.”
She barely hears; behind her mask of Monday smile.
She steers each item past the barcode beep, and sleepworks
- finds that it’s the only way to make it through the disappointment, rude necessity
and shame of this small life, of “every day is like the last”
and tomorrow will be, predictably,
just the same.
Trapped on the conveyor ...
Monday 23rd February 2009 6:07 pm