Counter Number 8. Please

"Counter number eight please,"
the tannoy instructs us
as the red arrow flashes right.

Shoppers shuffle down the aisle
one space at a time, sliding baskets
along the ground with their feet.

The stainless steel grates against
the concrete floor like the piped music
against our ears.

Girls laden with fresh fruit
and yoghurt, trying to hide
their large tubs of Haagen Daz.

Men with Pot Noodles and rashers,
ready meals and six packs,
check out girls' behinds.

Cashiers blink to the beep
Of the till, their eyes ringing
Up the seconds until closing time.

Homeless and Hungry

I am Homeless and Hungry,
read the sign around the little boy's neck.

With a mongrel tucked under his arm
And a tin whistle between his lips,
His song mingling with the cacophony
Of Christmas shoppers on Grafton Street.

I watched him for a while, from a safe distance
Behind a record shop facade. Until,
I noticed him proffer a wink,
Which sailed through the sea of legs
To a little girl across the street.

She was playing a tin whistle,
with a mongrel tucked under her arm,
And a sign around her neck, which read:
I am Homeless and Hungry.

Sunflower

Draguignan, October 1998.

Outside the vineyard,
droplets of rain refresh us
like the bottle of white wine
on the wrought iron table.

There's a sunflower between us
on the cover of your notebook;
so we take it in turns
to write our lines of love.

Occasionally, we stop
to exchange wine through our kisses,
while the rain makes our words bleed
like your mascara at the airport.

Unfortunate Timing

I paced around the boutique,
trying to look inconspicuous
amongst the throng
of Saturday afternoon shoppers.

I could see your feet
and calves protruding
from beneath the changing room door.

Her skirt slid to the floor;
She stepped out of it
and kicked it to one side.

Her hands appeared
Clutching a black chiffon dress
Then disappeared again as she drew it up her thighs.

After a few seconds
Her calves wiggled, as if
She was marching on the spot.

Her feet turned to the left,
Then they turned to the right.
I visualised her admiring her behind.

Suddenly, a shop assistant appeared,
And asked if I required any help.
Then the door creaked slowly open:
"How do I look?"

^

Biograpy

David C. Croft was born in Batley, West Yorkshire in 1964. His poetry and short stories have appeared in: the US Literary Review, Cyphers, Envoi, The Haiku Quarterly, Lifelines 3, The Amnesty International Anthology "Human Rights Have No Borders", WP Monthly and the Independent on Sunday Anthology "IOS New Stories." His screenplay "Woman's Best Friend", based on the short story by the same name, is currently in development. He has lived in Dublin for the past eight years where he works as an art director and writer.