Supermarket,
fluorescent hum overhead,
softening everything
that should feel sharper.
I take a basket
before I need one,
something to hold
so I don’t look lost.
At home
everything repeats.
Nan in the kitchen,
something always baking.
Pop at the nook with tea,
steam at the same hour.
Dad behind a closed door
or not there at all.
Nothing loud.
Nothing wrong.
Just set.
Here,
people move like they belong
to where they are going.
An old woman
slow through the aisle,
coat brushing her legs,
bread tucked under her arm.
No pause.
No search.
Just forward.
I watch her
until she disappears.
Something in me
doesn’t follow.
I’m still here.
Holding nothing.
Further down
a young man
studies his receipt
like it might say more.
Milk.
Frozen meals.
Something sweet.
He folds it carefully.
Pockets it.
I look away
before he looks back.
I drift.
Pick things up.
Put them back.
My basket stays light.
Not empty
unfinished.
The aisles stretch on
full of people
who already decided.
At checkout,
I place something down.
A chicken caesar wrap
in a plastic box.
Already made.
Already chosen.
Beep.
The receipt prints
thin proof
I was here at all.
Outside,
I stand still
watching the automatic doors
open and close
like nothing is waiting for me.
The world keeps moving anyway
cars, footsteps, voices
as if I never stood there at all.
Then I leave
and it doesn’t notice.