CW: unsanitary, vomit

I’m sorry, he says

as the dark stain spreads

across his crotch.

I’m so sorry, he says

as the dark stain runs

down his leg.

oh god, he says 

I’m just 

so so sorry,

as urine steams 

from his trouser ankle

and onto the shop floor

and he keeps apologising 

as we help him to the taxi rank.

it’s the brain tumour, he says.

I don’t know I’m doing it, 

I swear.

we tell him it’s fine.

well tell him he’s 

nothing to be sorry about. 

we tell him he’s always been

a pleasant and respectful customer

to us. 

still, he says

getting into the taxi.

I’m so very very sorry …

that afternoon

as Kev was carrying a bucket 

across the shop floor,

a woman knocked into him.

that’s your fault, that is

she told him

as the bucket clanged 

across the aisle.

you wanna watch where you’re going, 

she told him

as the bleached water

lumpy with vomit 

splattered the shop floor.

if you get any of that on my shoes,

she pointed, I’ll be suing.

kev looked down:

he would now have to clean up

the same pile of sick

a second time.

the woman walked on.

you just knew 

she was going to live 

for forever 

and you didn’t 

envy her.