by Graham Catt

    our trolleys collide
    in the confectionery aisle
    her eyes still flickering
    with a familiar flame

    she looks through
    the ribs of my trolley
    as though looking into my heart
    to see what my life has acquired

    a dozen or so regrets
    a bag of heartache
    a carton of bitterness
    (the concentrated variety)

    and crushed beneath
    one litre of unsweetened misery
    is a small packet of hope
    (the cheap, generic brand)

    her frugal smile tells me
    I am not what she is looking for
    that I am far too expensive;
    she puts me back on the shelf

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