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same build, wide brimmed
black hat, black coat
black scarf, pale face,
slight stoop.
a change from builders’
jackets, tourist slouch.
he is scanning every
label
in aisle thirteen, spice
and cereals.
I got the country right.
long queues at the tills
and he’s
just behind me.
a genial gentleman from
the States,
he worked in
and now for forty years
in
‘you see I was in the
Mil-i-t-ery’.
his power registers with
me.
am I talking to the FBI?
an agent who’s
discovered shopping
and chatting to
strangers?
(is his official food
taster always ill?)
the vast TV pumps horror
to the queue.
he drawls, ‘you see my dear, we shouldn’t worry.
history, it’s all the same,
let it roll.
I’m retired now, it’s so important to be
happy’.
walking out, he with his Weetabix and
drizzling honey, me with my
seedless clementines,
he gives me a tough
wrinkled grin,
tips his hat and wishes me
‘ a wunnerful weekend’.
I feel compelled to have one.
outside the door his personal
security waits,
a watch checking dark
suited heavy.
he grasps the Tesco bag and walks closely
behind the broad brimmed
black hat,
as it turns into
and slips into St James’.
Liz
Callingham