Jones the Grocer

Jones, the Grocer, we called him-
A pale man skilled in servility,
His hands white and soft as the lard he stacked
In small meticulous rows, his head
Polish and somehow apologetic, as if
He was crowned forever with dishonour

I hated him, he was to obsequious by far,
Embellising, transaction   whit fulsome flattery
Of your hab, your appearance, your miserable opinions.
He seemed to exis in a fog
Of self-effacement, trouhg which  one caught
The rarest glimpse of a human dignity

Yet, one could suffer the arid washing of his hands
For the joy of that shops its curiosities,
like the corner where it was always dusk
And equatorial aromatics whith coffee beans
And calendars derisive of popularity,
And the adverts twenty years out of date

One could suffer it, and gladly suffer it again
To be delivered of this, its successor-
A supermarket, slick and soulless
Arrogantly accepting the shopper´s homage.


HERBERT WILLIAMS