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    In this clever poem, Ursy Reynolds takes another look at a place we all know very well.

    Two bottles of wine down, I stumbled

    into Tesco, ran my fingertips along the shelves

    looking for a note between the bottles or something

    which would tell me what to do, how to stop

    the colours of the limes and lemons popping out

    and the sound of the tills, something in the bagging area

    I looked down, and it was me, crouched there,

    like in an incubator, maybe waiting for someone to

    pick me up and take me home, an unexpected item,

    then got up: those first steps to the automatic doors,

    someone outside saying something through them,

    their mouth moving. I couldn’t hear them.

    Image credit: Chrisloader via Creative Commons

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