I watch my future roll by in tins of tuna, baked beans and packets of biscuits. I sense the disdain of the woman stood behind me. As the last item beeps its irregular heartbeat I reach for my wallet and pull out banknotes the size of postage stamps, tip coins into my hand that slip through my fingers like grains of sand. The cashier pretends to be patient while I get out my card. It slides out easily but is heavy as a concrete slab and too big for the slot. I grasp it with both hands, try to insert at least one corner. Then it flops, goes limp as a wet bath towel. Everyone’s watching now, and the cashier is just a smiling face on a screen. I gather up my items, shove small ones into pockets, biscuits snap and crumble in my overfilled arms. I wear the card like a shawl to keep me warm in the night as I scuttle out of the fluorescent white store.
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Patrick WiddessSelection of poetry and other writing Listen to poetry recordings here. Please check out my travel blog Patrick's Postcards. Archives
August 2015
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