Peacock Dreams

“Cashier to checkout seven please.”

She barely hears; behind her mask of Monday smile.

She steers each item past the barcode beep, and sleepworks

- finds that it’s the only way to make it through the disappointment, rude necessity

and shame of this small life, of “every day is like the last”

and tomorrow will be, predictably,

just the same.

Trapped on the conveyor ...

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Last stop before paradise.                                                                              

An April rain has streaked the windows, smudging the view of suburban streets.

The chill breeze bends the spring’s first flowers and the TV’s showing old repeats.

In the lounge of The Willows nursing home the care assistants are serving teas.

After the adverts comes the snooker and ever...

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