Ready salted

I write poems like lists of things
for you to get at the supermarket.
I hope you notice
1. mushroom
2. cleaner
mean that I want you in aisle 9,
to forget the messy bits
and pull a line of knotted carrier bags
out your offal imagination,
go find a slat window and abseil
out of there with a packet of pork cutlets
stuffed in your pocket.

In the car park,
finger pick off the fat,
thick and white as a blond ponytail,
fling it across the tarmac,
watch it stuck with grit
slip under your shoe.

Think of recipes
other people make
seem like science.
Find a café to dunk
custard creams in tea,
suggest to the staff
that they read poetry
and if they react like a nut allergist
remind them
someone will finger bury their sorrow
in the ready salted peanuts at their funeral
and that there will be someone somewhere on a pulpit, reading a poem
cos it seems to be the most common way to communicate.