Pushing my trolley today I have Ingomar the barbarian.
He is my shopping buddy. He strides through the fresh meat section
advising me on barbarian cuisine in the nineteenth century.
He is unimpressed by shrink-wrap and buy-one-get-one-free,
in fact the whole concept of payment is alien; shopping as raid.
I have learned that he likes his meat raw, grilled or fried,
but stews are for stentl, a dialect word which doesn’t translate
but involves mice, your mother, and a failure to fornicate.
Fourteen years times fifty two weeks I have wrestled this trolley
trying to find a way to make incomes and outcomes tally.
Ingomar says compared to barbarism it’s sheer fucking hell,
especially the queues, give him branding or besieging any day.
I find his outlook refreshing, but I know he won’t stay.
Besides, next week I’ve got Elvis, the week after Galway Kinnell.