written by: Elizabeth Barton
Supermarkets become a frontline of battle
(don’t mention the toilet paper, or the brawl
over the last chicken in a Hawkes Bay store).
Buying groceries is a military operation,
full metal jacket; surgical mask, rubber gloves,
a vial of hospital-grade sanitiser
fit to knock me out if I inhale too deeply.
My mask practically blinds me as I fumble,
glasses steam up as I thumb through my list.
Dodging bullets of any innocent cough is a new art;
aisles are trenches, the enemy swift and unseen;
I dart through my chores with a sniper handcart.