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New World, 7:38pm
- Madeleine Ballard

the theatre is not your house or mine,
not the street just outside, where goodnights
and parallel parks are practised;
not work, not university,
not even the theatre;
no, it is the supermarket. there,
under the halogen certainty of the lights
go you and I,
our hands coupled.

observe us! passing among
the raspberries, the capsicum belfry,
two enthusiastic pyramids of HONEY NUT CRUNCH.
here, in aisle three, we rehearse again
the deliberation between jelly beans
and caramel. we will buy halloumi; a samosa
for the walk. we will buy peanut butter
for spooning. among the many yoghurts, we attend
a postmodern conversation that goes have we got milk?
yes. no, I meant have we got
my milk? between two people
about our age and therefore probably cast
as the foils, but we only laugh and turn to consider
the frozen potato products

we stand and watch the whitehatted attendant
weigh a salmonside with old-fashioned gentleness
and it is suddenly holy to examine
the dishwashing liquids, eyebright under the fluorescence,
because after all, what could matter more than you
selecting one to foam gigglily over
the two forks, the two bowls?

then it is time for you to browse the economist
while I browse the bagels

and how love   ly it would be to be
always this way,
always in these aisles,
drifting through plenty with you


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