A Woolworths, vast, old-fashioned, many-aisled.
The counters high, too high for me to see.
I hurried on. The prams stood by the door
Brimming with infants, grizzling, bawling, wet,
Three to a pram. My worst fears realised.
Then I saw that one was silent, mine,
And knew I needed now some sign of life.
A tear-stained face appearing round the hood,
Bonnet askew, a nose that needed wiping,
A watery smile perhaps, of recognition.
Seeking me out and signaling his need…
But there was nothing.
Only a stained sheet and a crumpled blanket,
As the others wheeled their loaded prams away.