The Co-Operative

Discounted sandwiches taste
suspiciously like you, oozing
at the centre. The break between
you and the next itches of
plum and petrol. My innards congeal.

Overdosing on old bruised red
meat. You seem for the first time to
be thursting me towards the door
I have slunk by.

Cheaped always with clumsy
platitudes and flesh. Our head
can't take anymore. Almost sadly
I watch you walk away. I wonder who
I can let in, now you've seen sense.