The Supermarket on Forsaken Street.

The people you meet are not all real.
Some are ghosts that bare incredible sorrow,
Others are invisible, you won’t see them at all,
And still others are austere butterflies,
Fluttering from one safe place to another.

Today I went to the supermarket to buy some salt,
I saw Mrs Franklin,
She pulled her hand bag close to her waist when she saw me,
Some years ago she was brutally raped by a gang of teenage hooligans,
They punched her in the face and broke her jaw.
She doesn’t trust men, anymore.
I smiled and nodded but she just shook her head and ran out of the shop.
She was screaming “Jesus loves the little children, all the little children of the world.”

As I reached the fruit aisle I saw Mr Papadopoulos,
He seemed in a cheerful mood and smiled from ear to ear,
Apparently he lost his 5 kids and his grandmother in a car crash,
He only talks about fruit now,
“Hey kid try the bananas they good for ya.” he said and disappeared.
As he left the store he crossed himself as Catholics do.

Trying to hide himself a teenager was stealing cigarettes,
He put them into a guitar case.

At the counter I saw Mrs Benooto,
I let her go first because she had two autistic children, Paul and Peter.
The boys were drooling all over the place and making wailing noises.
“Thank you, son, you will be in my prayers,”

I walked out without paying,
No-one said a word.
I guess they had more on their minds than a guy with a stolen bag of salt.