Cornershop 5
I’ve run out of Heineken
this warm summer evening,
so I’m heading over
to the cornershop.
It sticks in my mind
what the shopkeeper once said:
“Skendong.
Go up the road
to Asda Eastlands.
If you’re a pound short,
will the till clerk say,
‘Don’t worry.
Pay me when you have it?'”
As I approach,
Gail is sitting on the wall.
“Where’s your lover?”
“He’s on a five-week holiday.”
“Again,” I resignedly respond,
vigorously shaking my head.
“What for now?”
“Well, he was on a bender,
got on the tram and…”
I cut in.
“Want a beer?”
“Go on then,” she says.
I step into the corner shop.
“How you doing, my friend?”
I ask the Kashmiri shopkeeper.
“How’s your assistant?”
“I’ve had a word with him.
Told him to calm down.”
I pay for the beers,
step out into the heat,
and hand one to Gail.
Rasta Ash and Cozzy appear.
I fist-bump them.
“Blessings.”
“That assistant,” Ash says.
“Man got bruk up
in Piccadilly Gardens,
smoking crack.”
More people gather.
“Hope it goes quick, Gail.
Your love will be home soon.”
“Ash. Cozzy. More time.”
I raise a clenched fist to them.
Heinekens in my rucksack,
I meander home
from the cornershop.
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Prelude to Cornershop 5: