In checkout-counter lives
thin red light beams
scan codes of curious lines
and compute the total
from the self-serving selection
in my full trolley basket,
(never quite under my control);
and the swiping eftpos plastic card
makes the painless payment
for the saturated-time pleasures,
high-comfort indulgences,
and gratifications
that will not be kept waiting.
At thirty-day intervals, approximately,
the statement from my soul shows
that I have little in reserve,
neither cash nor kind,
to feed the hungry or help the poor,
or to stand up for what is just;
and the words long ago spoken
by another who was tempted
return to remind me
that there are other ways to be.
Ah, but I can be tempted.
© Ken Rookes
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