Local
Eggs
She balances the tray of eggs
on her fingertips, just like a waiter.
She put on weight with the baby
and hasn’t lost it. Her thighs bulge
between her long striped socks
and her tiny shorts.
He is trudging behind her,
pushing the buggy.
The bags of groceries
are stuffed in underneath.
The baby is mashing
a slice of ham and chicken.
She walks four steps ahead of him
without once looking back.
That’s the sign.
Another six months
of the kid screaming,
the on-and-on argument about
who bought the fucking carpet steamer
and one day she slams a tray of eggs
onto his Xbox, and walks out
flicking her fingers into the air
like she’s calling the waiter.
Ice cream
The man with the Zimmer frame
stumbles, and the boy beside him
grabs his elbow.
The Zimmer frame knocks
against the girl with the tray of eggs
teetering on her fingertips
who says, ‘Fuck off’
and grabs at the eggs
with her other hand.
The man with the Zimmer frame
is seventy years older
than the boy beside him
who keeps one hand
lightly on his elbow.
With his other hand the boy is texting
sorry busy
The man with the Zimmer frame
stops for breath. He watches
the couple – the girl with the eggs,
the guy with the buggy –
crossing the road. He winces
as the father bangs the wheels
up over the kerb.
‘Want an ice cream?’ he says
to the boy texting.
Nothing
The wide man leaning on his gate
sings, and waves at everything.
His trousers stop above
his small white socks.
His arms are giant
windscreen wipers.
A jogger in pink track pants
with a tiny dog on a leash
waves back. The girl with the tray
of eggs on her fingertips
flicks her eyes at him
then pretends she didn’t.
He doesn’t care. He sings,
loud, cheerful nonsense.
Across the road, the man with the Zimmer frame
raises one hand and salutes him.
The boy walking beside him
says, ‘What a weirdo.’
Lots
Two women sashay past
the man at the gate.
They wave in time with him,
then roll their hips and laugh.
They have their church clothes on,
their big hats, flowery dresses
and large handbags.
They’re a good team. Their bags
are bulging with perfume, hand cream,
earrings, razor blades, tins of oysters,
a mobile phone. First time
they’ve scored a phone.
They pass the girl balancing
the tray of eggs on her fingertips.
One digs in her bag, and tosses a lipstick.
It lands on the eggs, and the girl
nips it off with her other hand
and rams it down the front
of her tiny shorts.
Smokes
The woman behind the counter
leans her pregnant belly against the till.
The jogger in pink track pants
is tying the tiny dog to the sign
outside the dairy.
‘Oi!’ the woman behind the counter shouts.
‘He’ll pee on the doorpost.’
The jogger shrugs. She wants Port Royal 50 grams
yellow papers yellow filters.
She rolls one for herself, then one
for the crazy man across the road.
‘They kill you,’ the woman behind the counter says.
Eggs again
The man with the Zimmer frame
bangs the wheels over
the broken lino.
‘Get out!’ shouts the woman behind the counter.
But it’s not at him. It’s at a dog
moseying in between his legs.
Then there’s a boy texting,
and two women in hats.
The woman behind the counter glares at them.
She knows they’ll nick a tin of beef in a wink.
The man with the Zimmer frame
buys half a carton of eggs.
He waves at the ice cream
and nods at the boy. ‘What flavour?’
Then he says to the woman
behind the counter, ‘Busy?’
She rubs her belly. ‘Bit of a rush.’
She points at his eggs and says
‘Buy a tray. They’re cheaper.’
That’s the sign.
Another three months
of marked-down stock,
and she empties the till,
bundles the crying baby
into the buggy,
and sellotapes a sign
onto the window
closed sorry
She walks out,
flicking a hand in the air
like she’s calling a taxi.
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