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Supermarket Lights

By Jenni Dickson


To stop the stimming of his hands and arms,

his headphones serve to catch his reckless tears.

His coloured glasses help him see straight but,

it’s the supermarket lights that he fears.

Unlike a much-loved, worn-out song, they hum

like growling, hungry, sleep-deprived brown bears.


He hits the ground; the people, they consume

and tut the Drekavac who lies there bawling.

And when it’s all too much for him he turns,

propels himself in search of what he’s craving.

Deep down I know that it’s not worth the fight.

He’s just been lacerated by the lights.


Attacked by lurid, junk food addict aisles,

he runs the gauntlet of fluorescent eels,

and passes into territories unknown with

wet greetings from the freezers’ broken seals.

He’s checked out. Sapped. Destroyed by all the bleeps.

I need to get him home so he can heal.

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