Humanity on Parade

Stuck in Town.
Now I am a retail prisoner.
Before me the 'Food Court',
Saccharine smells,
Blend with coffee and grease.
I scan looking for the rest rooms.
A long narrow passage lit with blinking fluorescence.
Meanders into the Bessa-brick anals of the building.
Framed posters of consumerist decadence on peeling paint.
"Ah a bookstore",
Perhaps it has the new book,
I heard about on the radio,
In my, 'next bookstore four hundred kilometres', rural home.
But no,
False pretences,
Book clearance centre in guise of 'nice rustic book emporium'.
Chain stores and bargain, clearance, retail outlets.
And walking like zombies,
Overloaded with Christmas shopping,
Those for which this retail experience is normal.
Humanity on parade.
I make my escape,
With only a couple of completely superfluous purchases.
I feel almost dirty with the shame of it.
I am off to find a public park,
And a shady tree.

Aspies Shopping

We don't really like to browse.
There maybe something in that shop we really like and won't be allowed to have.
We will not be able to stop thinking about it.
Mum likes that Hippy shop.
Neither of us like the smells in there.
Patchouli Mum says.
She knows because she has the nose that knows.
Just like me.
Mum likes to talk to her friends,
She meets on the street.
I don't.
I just want to get on with it.
Whatever 'it' is supposed to be.
I pull at her hand and don't acknowledge the person she is talking too.
Sometimes I get scared that there might be people in a shop that I don't know.
It is getting late for morning tea.
My tummy is rumbling.
I ask Mum the time.
I was right we are late.
Mum buys me a pie for lunch.
What I really want is a cake,
And she knows it.
Mum is not surprised when I cover my ears,
Because someone is using a power saw.
Driving home I'm thirsty from the pie.
Mum will not stop to buy a drink.
She just wants to get home.
Neither Mum nor I like shopping.