I’m stacking empty shelves,
in an empty Superstore.
Between the empty spaces,
I see a strange old man
mopping the black and white floor.
Slowly the spaces are filled,
baked beans, peas and peaches
block out my view of the aisle.
Still, I hear the swish of the mop
on the shop’s filthy floor.
With my empty trolley I turn,
round the end of the row.
The old man’s carrying his bucket.
His uniform’s a faded, dark green,
as he mutters, ‘Good evening, my dear.’
My trolley’s been magically filled,
with weird, outdated brands,
old-fashioned soaps and shampoos.
The man’s now in the next aisle.
I notice he floats as he moves.
Peering through spaces between packets,
he is frantically washing the floor.
There’s a strange green haze
hovers and shimmers around him
and the tins rattle more and more.
I hand in my keys as I finish.
The boss has heard of my ghost.
He was crushed by a falling shelf,
more than twenty years ago.
‘But he still comes to work
to mop up the blood, you know.’
2024-01-01