29 refusals at the checkout.

29 refusals at the checkout.
Charity bag pack and I’m doing my bit
I’ve learnt how to open those flimsy bags
all I need now is a customer.
The long queue grumps its way through the slow till –
but all my flim-flam–flimsy-bag sleight of hand
isn’t worth a scented candle –
they all say no.
So I have to stand there looking cheerful
as if I don’t mind them not wanting
my immense bag-packing skills.
I was brought up in a shop,
my father taught me how to pack a bag –
tinned stuff at the bottom
meringues on the top
I won’t put your frozen chips next to your hot pie.
Maybe I look like a woman who smashes eggs
maybe I have an untidy gleam in my eye
something about me makes them grab their sausages and run.
They could be right.


About Jan Dean

This entry was posted in A poem a day for April. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to 29 refusals at the checkout.

  1. Well, I asked you (it wasn’t you, but another baglady) for help with my packing. The cashier asked if I wanted a bag. I said “no thank you”. I took my sausages. The baglady’s bag gaping: we all had egg on our face. I scrambled in confusion.

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