Ordinary Grace
by Victoria Meng, Huntingtower
Finalist, Years 11 – 12, written poetry
Morning light sprawls across linoleum floors.
Lines of trolleys, metal kissing metal
stirring up a storm in the produce aisle.
When I was young, I watched people turn coins into numbers,
spin numbers into bags, that bloomed open with a papery sigh
They were magicians, I thought back then, spinning wonder
You gave me a sticker, a balloon once, then Woolies Ooshies
that I couldn’t cup with my tiny hands – I learnt next time
Coles Little Shop minis – the Vegemite, the Eclipse mints
put into my Coles mini shopping basket
I didn’t know the word for it, so I called it luck
Time teaches by scratching,
laces bitten by dust, sighs that slip by customers
who forget – they speak to people
Hi Vis for nightfall, wrists taped where a carton bit back
“How are you today? Flybuys?”
The incessant blinking of evil red eyes,
chattering about the bagging area
Someone smiling in Woolies green,
W looped over the heart–
“I’ll put that through”, and the machine hushes,
rescued by hands it meant to replace
Still here, always here
Woolies. Coles.
That corner store which never quite sleeps.
Clean-up on aisle eight.
A mop arrives before the floor knew it was dangerous
Backroom cardboard smell– backs bend under cartons too heavy
Markdown bright yellow outlined in red special
I smooth the shelf edge label until it’s set straight
The world a millimetre kinder
The grace of an ordinary day
its own kind of extraordinary
Gratitude fits inside a breath if you let it.
Thank you–
to the girl at the self-serve wearing a silver stud
who freed my trapped tin, and said “you’re all good, love.”
To the man on nightfill, tucked radio behind his ear,
lifting three packs of mineral water like nothing
To the woman at the register who had me beaming
at the balloon, stickers, and cards I laid out like gold
For shelves that were full because someone’s back ached,
doors that answered keys at dawn – for work that I did not see
because it was done before I learnt to notice.
Respect – plain as a docket folded twice
You were magicians, not for the bags of tricks
but for holding back the middle of the week,
so the rest of us could pass through
I look past the belt, beeps, a turned-away bruise
stocked shelves in neat rows,
placed by hands who already knew
where everything lived.
The store looks back, busy but kind, names on badges,
light holding steady – a day stitched together
by ordinary grace.
Want to read more poems? Explore the other Years 11 – 12 finalists.