Disconnected

A sign at Brough Castle indicating where the kitchen once was.

“You look glamorous.” She told me.

I wore a short dress

and matching earrings.

The day before

I’d had a hair appointment

perhaps some product remained,

leaving a just cut,

glossy bounce

as I walked,

a little taller.

Confidence found

in a hair salon bottle.

I was dropping off donations

for the local foodbank,

a bank no one wants to borrow from,

a necessity

of a hard-hearted world.

Not usually frequented

by the glamorous

or those with perfect hair styles.

A budget bottle

of normal shampoo

sits in the box

among baked beans,

pasta

and tinned tomatoes.

This is a brief stop

in my busy day

before I shop.

Today I’m looking at new kitchens.

Choosing shiny

new quartz worktops

and pristine designer cupboards in

“antique rose” or “rusty red”?

I’ve yet to decide.

Behind the doors I will keep

mostly branded goods

some top of the range,

a few choice luxuries.

Will there be any tins

bearing supermarket own brand,

bland serviceable packaging?

Or will those

be placed in

the next foodbank

donation box?

The disconnect hits me.

It’s a journey of two halves

My world seems far removed

from the foodbank clients.

But I don’t believe

I am glamorous

not for one minute.

In the sleek,

well appointed,

kitchen showroom,

my sandals look at little scuffed.

Chipped glitter nail varnish

shows a manicure is overdo.

Even if my earrings

match my dress

and my hair bounces

perfectly.