I stole a lipstick once, removed
the barcode with my thumbnail
in my pocket
as I filled my trolley
through the aisles:
organic veg, fair-trade coffee,
free-range eggs, low-fat milk;
I passed rows of biscuits,
sweet selections, without
a second glance; did not
loiter near the alcohol.
At the checkout I smiled politely
stacked and packed in
hessian bags.

At home I stored away in gleaming
cupboards, separate shelves
for cooked and raw; recycled
plastic, paper wrappers;
cleared all traces of debris;
stood before my mirror
applied the stolen lipstick—
a scarlet, slapper red, defiant,
wanton, a taste of decadence—
lived a delicious moment,
wiped it off;
prepared the family meal
low-carb, protein rich
no sugar; grinned
       —      added salt.