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Poetry Pleases: Sale Time At Marks And Spencer

Sale time at Marks and Spencer
Everything’s up for grabs.
The women surge like a tidal wave,
Grimly battling in the effort to save…

Pat Morton writes of the joys and frustrations of going to the sales.

Sale time at Marks and Spencer
Everything’s up for grabs.
The women surge like a tidal wave,
Grimly battling in the effort to save
Some hard-earned cash and look as cute
As the celebrity in the Jaeger suit.

My top’s still in its bag, dear at £19.
I haven’t worn it, just carry it round.
Couldn’t know then how the dream would rebound.
Those rugby tops are now £12.

There’a my jumper, blue and red,
Halfway over that woman’s head!
I’ll buy a cheaper one, take mine back.
All I have to do is find the rack.
“Where did you get it?” I almost accuse.
She couldn’t refuse to tell me but she points
Vaguely here and there
Then gives up in confused despair.

I search in vain for a £12 top.
While the one in my bag takes on the weight of a rock.
I really like it but it’s all gone sour.
That £7 difference has inexplicable power.

Then I see them – slippers under a rail
As though someone had just slipped out of them,
But they’re not there to tell the tale.
I mentally step into them and sit down by the fire
To watch people fighting over clothes that don’t inspire,
Grabbing the dying season’s cast-offs from the funeral pyre.

I walk out of the slippers and out of the shop
With a heavy load – my £19 top!

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