Like Gormley statues, living stones,
We shuffle forwards, eye on phones,
Until we reach the double door,
Are granted access to the store.
The system then is all one way.
We grab our goods. We hope and pray
We don't commit the greatest folly,
And miss an item for our trolley.
Forgotten stuff from any section,
Means going in the WRONG direction.
It takes some doing, don't you think?
That surreptitious backwards slink?
Progressively, the trudge round goes,
With dodging, and with dosey does,
With shrugs, and all those rueful smiles,
As people traipse along the aisles.
And always, on this slow commute,
Is someone who has taken root.
She's stationed where we want to be.
She scans the shelves but cannot see
Whatever she is looking for.
Will this do? Hmm. She isn't sure.
She reads the label on the pack.
She frowns a bit, then puts it back.
We're waiting there, six feet behind.
FOR GOODNESS' SAKE. MAKE UP YOUR MIND.
In time, she'll move - a great relief -
But, like some tiresome leitmotif,
This ditherer who's such a pain,
Will pop up time and time again....
At last, we're out, and freedom sense,
And won't return till two weeks hence.