village supermarket in january
precincts below my window
lush with fresh-fall
horizons`
absent inside vast vapours
of electric white
i follow the ascent of my breath
curling / twisting
into mist as running engines claw
at compact frost
relieved gasps
tumbling through sliding doors
wrapped up like onions –
bobble hats and snoods and ski-gloves
wind-burnt glowing cheeks / noses
knowing smiles between strangers
it’s winter and it’s edgy
but it’s fun
we really shouldn’t have bothered in this
somebody mutters
without meaning it
the floor a darkening mass of sludge
navy blue uniforms arc the isles
with virgin mops
warning old folk – tread with care
where is the sky
squeaks the little girl
in the supermarket queue
the snow is giving it a rest
her mother smiles
first at her
then at me
Paul Robert Mullen is a poet, musician and sociable loner from Liverpool, U.K. He has three published poetry collections: curse this blue raincoat (2017), testimony (2018), and 35 (2018). He also enjoys paperbacks with broken spines, and all things minimalist.
Twitter: @mushyprm35
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