Veg Shop Shiva

East Kent, 24 February 2021

Diminutive he stands out front

in our shuffling little queue

simulacrum of what women want 

in veg shop aisle number two.

Skinny jeans and work boots

flecked and muzzy with lime

woven cap, for his roots

fleece-clad god for our time.

Muscled arms and torso

everyday corollary of work

burnt umber skin like cocoa

on pale palette here to lurk.

White-peppered hands hold chilli,

ginger and tendril-like beans;

this form and figure of beauty

say my quota of female genes.

Worn out wallet, pocket-prised

a crumpled altar in the window

no doe-eyed girl, no angelic child

but beatific enemy of woe.

At the till now, just in front of me

I hold this stranger in my mind’s eye

from far off I hear, incantatory

OM NAMAH SHIVAY.