Early Closing Day

Wind swung his tartan shopping bag,
the pattern of clans rocked like a giant’s sporran,
a few last strands of hair danced semi-erect
on a pate cratered with the litter of a
thousand bryl-creamed nights out.
His eyes defied the force eight that
bit at his lips, clawed at ample ears-
there was work to be done on early closing day.

In John Hicks, the butchers, pastel macs
stood as a row of Devonian cottages,
purses swollen with defunct coinage, pictures
of the loved ones who phoned once a week,
‘pork chops’ waited within mouths, eyes
tearing as Hicks tore tendons,
in the last hour of early closing day.

Four doors down, the bakers queue trickled
past kids with sallow sockets, whispering
penny for their death-row kind of guy,
that wind escorting chip papers to a tree top,
as shutters slid down, signs turned, to mark
the end of early closing day,