Every Little Helps

Every Little Helps

He’s security: synthetic navy suit, white shirt,
polyester tie strangling. “Yoofs” to collar.
Name badge pricking holes like shame.
His own. Store discount as standard.
The same every day. Usually planted
by the sliding doors or in the alcohol aisle.

Used to be a newsagents opposite here,
convenient for commuters, trains rumbling
the station bridge overhead, queues restless
for the buses. Rush hour waiting cigarettes,
chocolate, pints of office milk. Birthday cards.
“Get well soon”. Retirements and secret
valentines. It’s boarded up now. Graffiti-ed
obscenities and a stink of piss to match.

Same family had run it for donkeys.
At twelve he’d got a paper round there.
His first. The bloke would call him “son”
and he didn’t mind. He’d saved for that bike.
A long time ago. A long, long way back.

Last year Tesco Expressed their support
for this particular community. Job creation.
Urban regeneration. Social responsibility.
He just needed – really needed – a job.
And this new place, it was very convenient
for commuters, trains rumbling overhead,
queues restless for those buses. Rush hour
cigarettes, chocolate, pints of office milk.

The same every day. It’s security.
He finds it easy. Usually planted
unsmiling by the sliding doors
or in the alcohol aisle.

The world skims constant in his eyes:
Do you have a clubcard? Do you collect
points? Do you have a frozen chicken
in your trousers? Unexpected item
in the bagging area. Please wait

for assistance. Much more difficult
to shoplift here. Alarms will squeal on you
and then there’s him: casually planted
by the sliding doors or in the alcohol aisle.
Moving in on the Red Stripe troubadours
and the Diamond White duchesses.
Dogs on strings definitely not permitted.
Outside where he has no jurisdiction

they heckle and shuffle by the cashpoint.
“Spare any change love?” “Got a light?”
“Are you my Dad?” Every Tuesday
at four he bounces the same old dear
for a sly can of sardines in brine,
a small packet of bourbon creams.

He watches her wobble out, tearful,
week after weak, into the concrete dusk.
An old bloke gentles her to a cold bollard,
like it’s a velvet throne. Grimy glove soft
on her arthritic tweed. Disgust
is muttered at the automatic doors.
The magic portal to fluoro-lit opulence,
temptation glinting high. Usually planted
in slow desperation in the alcohol aisle.

“She’s only wants to treat her cat.”
The words flick in sharp-slap on a surge
of school brats rabid for fresh additives.
He thinks of his Nan: her dentures,
woollen coats, her wrinkled red hands.
Must pop in on her on his day off.
Give her some of those coupons.

He’s not authorised to turn a blind eye.
Company policy. CCTV sees to that.
The same, all over again.
Itching to give the sliding doors
a good hard kicking,
he heads for the alcohol aisle.