The Checkout

The mothers pass packets
and bags like shed skin,
boxes and foil, wraps
of roll, toilet, domestic
tools and chews and toys.
Babies hang from them
like big blue fruit.
The tills beep up and down
with a soft computer song,
when the rustle and whirr
falls to a lull, yawns
mouth out of the cashiers.
Among the mother bundles,
big men in big coats
buy beef and beer, thumbs
push roughly in and out
of leather wallets, hands
inside of leather jackets.
Hairlines and firm expressions
like giant felt puppets.
More women now, older
singles with beehives
and grey houndstooth bonnets,
cartons of milk and olives
they love with their eyes
like promises. At the rear,
the grizzled fen potato
with a beard like a lizard
and soily, rutted skin,
chewing on a parsnip.
One cashier knocks off
and leaves the scene,
shuts the register
with a slam.