Holiday

The supermarket is shut by law, a chain across the trolleys and the lights left on inside for nobody, the oranges lit like a stage after the play.

The small shop on the corner is open, being small enough to be allowed. The man sells me milk and says nothing about the country, which is a hundred and eight today.

The trams go by with their two flags and hardly anyone aboard. The sky is low and grey and still, no wind to lift the flags, so they hang like washing left out.

I woke at the usual hour for no reason, and stayed up. It's a good use of a country, I think, carrying the milk home past the shut doors, slowly, because nothing is waiting.