Shopping City
By: Michael A. Arnold
We would only go into town
When we needed the shopping.
I remember seeing all the tall buildings,
and
being curious what each one was for,
I would always ask about them
from the back seat.
And when I was old enough to know –
I knew the big police station,
the radio station,
what offices looked like,
the massive stadium
where the football was played
to waves of fans,
and the many–storied car parks
with glittering stars
from cold street lights
sparkling on windscreens.
And then we would go
to one of the big supermarkets,
where you parked
and had to walk a mile
over tarmac, covered with
smoked cigarettes,
like browning autumn leaves,
to the cool shop doors.
When we finished gathering,
I would help stack the it all
onto the cashier's service belts,
and build my own little city:
First I would place the heavies,
making boxed curry sky scrapers,
and a big sports stadium of milk.
Lines of cleaning and washing fluids
would serve for lines of offices and carparks.
Big shopping center stretches
of meats would come next.
Then tins –
they would be the lower class housing:
Bunched tightly together,
with the instant coffee
they were my little corner shops.
Then came the lazy bread suburbs,
with cup noodle packets and baby bells
that would stand for parks and cafes
for my imaginary people to relax in.
But my city was always dismantled,
packed into the car,
and we'd go home
and store it away.
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