Of red and white mortar

The Tesco run falls to me again
this week, through suburban forests
of motors and wheat, that grows
high outside my tower block
of red and white mortar

The Journey feels incomplete
without seeing the chavs that line
the street, tractors exporting
there smoke and bling, doing their
thing of smoking and drinking
outside my tower block
of red and white mortar

The store stands tall and proud,
there’s an argument broken out
among a crowd, aisle thirteen of
special offers and treats
that taste darn good but
rots your teeth.  So I pick up a pack
as they’re so surprisingly cheep;
to eat in my tower block
of red and white mortar.

The push and the shove
and the trolley dash means its time
to find my cash and pay for my
mound of delights that seems to
have grown to an enormous site.
Not sure if it will all fit in the car
I pay the man and head back with a hernia
to my tower block
of red and white mortar

I'm in through the door,
put the bags on the floor
and the kettle goes on. 
I'll think about putting it away
as soon as I've had had a mug of tea. 
Until that point I'm not going to write
anymore in my tower block