ASDA keeps moving their eggs

and on days like yesterday
it is clearly personal. They don’t want my house
to have poached eggs in the week
and the guy behind the CCTV monitor,
the one who used to smile
when we walked into the shop,
enjoys watching me tut and gently throw
my hands in the air as the shelves I once trusted
now have bagels or multipack crisps on offer.
Everyone else knows where they’re going.
Their clean trainers and jeans fly like the crow
and collect their packs of twelve like it’s easy
and head to the frozen food or vegetables.
They talk to each other. They joke about
weekend plans and roast dinners
and I just want eggs. Half a dozen will do.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

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