My “Messages” poem for #nationalpoetryday #messages
I wish I had
a chunky rustic basket
of thick twisted wicker,
with a string of pink pork links
like a kite’s tail
teasing the butcher’s dog.
I want to buy
my milk and papers,
some fresh soft rolls
and some bacon.
will go nicely with a cup of tea.
The messages have to be walked for.
If you drive, it’s Gro-shree shopping:
Trolleys and crinkles and beeps and muzak and avoiding people you know and cranky toddlers and questionable parenting and vouchers you’ll never redeem and impulse purchases and plain packaged own brands that make you feel uneasy and like some kind of a food snob and multipacks and BOGOFs and bad lighting and dizzying totals when it comes to the checkout when you find you’ve forgotten your bags.
I’m away to the shops for my messages.
I’ve remembered my bag.
It is scrunched in my pocket.
My wallet is filled with coins.
I don’t take a basket.
I pick up the things that I want.
There’s no queue.
I pay and I leave.
The medium is the message.
If messages are a medium
The message from the messages
You’d better get your messages.