Bar Code    by  John Bird

My wife was over in biscuits &
I was somewhere in juices &
this tin without a label rumbled by
sort of tiredly shiny but clean
except for glue marks that proved
it once was something.
The floor wasn't sloped
yet it kept on rolling on, real slow-like,
as if searching for its shelf
or having a bit of a wander.
I had to run to keep up
as it passed below each row;
finished in fruit and veges
where it clearly didn't belong.
I hefted, smelled and shook it:
kind of an alien non-smell, suspiciously unsloshy,
about the weight of a hand grenade,
but bare as a monkey's bum in a shop where
everything's branded, sorted, shelved,
confessed to the world in small print.
I offered the checkout money
but it seems the system couldn't
price an uncoded mystery
so I stole it,
your Honour.

© John Bird