Little Heaven, Seven Eleven

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

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