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There’s a poem or two in Asda, I’m sure.

I search to the left of the lemons and blueberries,

hunting for half-rhymes in garlic and ginger,

but even the oranges can’t manage stanzas for long.

 

No rhymes in the coffee, or wine, or the cat food,

and even the cakes and croissants lack rhythm.

Poems are sure to be hiding, but where?

Perhaps in the aisle where the rice and the salt

and the herbs and the sesame oil belong?

 

And then luckily, just round the corner

a poem is patiently stacking a shelf

with tins of tomatoes, and soup, and green beans,

and humming ‘American Pie’ to herself.

 

So here are the poems in Asda,

pushing rattling cages as big as Toyotas,

going somewhere important, perhaps to aisle ten.

And Customer Services sports a traditional poem

with spondees singing like organised blackbirds -

(free verse intervenes now and then).

 

The Asda anthology’s free for the reading.

Poems walking about in their sadness or joy,

in their tabards; the subtle, the kind, and most often,

the plain old cheerful(ish) plod through the shift.

Here are their stories and songs, undercover

but not so well hidden - these treasures, these people,

these poems, their laughter, their pleading.