My ancestors dreamed of gentle heaven,
of all the comforts denied them
and toiled on; centuries
huddled in wet sod fields.
Forty generations pass,
next lives and rebirths,
and I walk the aisles of
my local Seven Eleven,
bathed in the wide pan
of white fluorescence,
coddle by the warm artificial
air; purring ventilator.
Pupils dilate, transfix
on shining, ornate boxes:
Nipples of Venus, Apollos,
Mars Bars and Milky Ways.
Mirrors show row on row,
infinite sustenance.
All is treacle beads coming down,
thick with warm voices
humming mantras from the
ceiling, that
linger long in your ears
and call you back.
Approaching the counter
and the clerk with the
fat Buddha face,
face of enlightenment, with
the answer that I’ve
lost the question to.
Outside, night is
black tar dripping;
feeble lamp lights huddle at the
feet of apartment block canyons.
Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014
