In The 7:11 Store, Bel Air

Tom’s cruising down by the freezers,
looking for a TV dinner
for one

Angelina’s got the kids in tow
grabbing at potato chips and soda
and 1000 varieties of cereal
and the fudge-coated pinenuts
hoping Brad hurries with the Prius

Clooney’s over by the hair products
in Bermudas, Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops
like he’s still on-set for ‘The Descendents’ -
running his finger along the bottles of dye
and wondering if grey is still as sexy as he and
Gere tried to make it

Clint’s buying Wild Turkey off
the Puerto-Rican chick at the till.
She slips it in a brown bag as he
whips his Platinum card from
the pocket of his Wranglers and
tries to make it look like Harry’s Magnum.
‘Make my day, honey,’ he almost croaks.
And he almost croaks

Pacino’s stocking up on Marlboros and Pabst.
Samuel L’s checking out the magazines.
Damon muses ‘How’d you like them apples.’
Leonardo raises his eyebrows at the price
of biodynamic guarana tea, and the sight
of whatever the fuck Depp’s wearing today

Somehow, Simon Pegg looks out of place,
pushing the trolley for mate Gwyneth
(with her strange-named kinder)
in his nerdy clothes and beard
his skateboard under his arm
his cap turned backwards
his high-5s to everyone
including the guy stacking the asparagus
in case he’s famous

Ricky Gervais doesn’t shop here.
He sticks to Rodeo.
He sends the help.

Val Kilmer’s looking for low-fat everything now,
even toothpaste. And Robert Downey Jr checks
that reflection again in the chiller glass and
wonders how it is still possible he looks so good
after all that’s passed via mouth, nostrils,
endocrines, veins, alimentary (my dear Watson),
ass

Kristen is thumbing through the cards, looking for
a suitable apology, half-knowing she’ll never find one
anyway, and never be reconciled, and
always wish she hadn’t been such a
slut to Pattz - even if he was
such a putz on set

J-Law still can’t really believe she’s here at all
with Nicholson’s hand wrapped around
her wrist in case she falls -
eye candy, even though his eye
is everywhere else, and there’s
only her to look at her Photoshopped self
in the glass as they pass - the
fairground mirror figure,
number 8 -
all torso and arse, no
waist

Tarantino lurks near the bookstand,
catty-corner to the pharmacy,
camera ready under his raincoat
for the shotgun hold-up he hopes for –
the exploding heads for a handful of bills,
the scrambled lasagne up the walls
the unscripted dialogue to
kill for

McConaughey’s there, too,
being his own hero
and that of his wife
and kids
in his own movie
of his own life

And De Niro just stands outside looking in
methodising his place in this scene
of life imitating art, and thinking
it’s all the same
whoever you are -
shit still stinks
bills need paying
people are a pain in the ass
you need to shave every fuckin’ day
your socks wear out eventually,
like the feet you put them on
your neck turns into a redwood trunk
your cock shrivels up
your tits head south

and so
do
you