We are dogs in the trap,
thoroughbreds
straining in the cage.

The doors are not yet open
but our faces
are flat against the glass.

We’re squeezed together,
shoulders knocking,
anticipation breathes

through the crowd
as one singular excited thought:
our hearts beat fast.

We can see the shop assistants
hopping from foot to nervous foot,
worry in thier downturned mouths.

They see the pack outside
with lolling tongues, wide eyes
and desire:

to buy, purchase, get
by any means: we’re all salivating,
our finger nails are sharp.

We’ll fight if we must
as it’s all for one
and one for one

in the up and coming scrum.
And if it’s a granny
who goes sprawling

then there’s one less
in the queue, one less
elbo in the eye,

one less combatant
who needs flooring
in the mad dash

to come.
Hold on,
I hear something!

Wait!  No one breathe.
It’s the shop assistant:
her hand is at the latch.

I can feel the ground swell,
the moment near unburdening,
the instant triggered

and about to explode
in claws skittering on tiles
and limbs grasping,

flailing hands
and shouts of
mine, mine, mine!

Here we go
in madness flow:
she’s opening the door.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015