The china shop,
where the sun shone through the cleanest of windows
empty except for china bowls,
and other stuff
and for the young shop assistant
her boredom was distracted by the bell ringing
as the door opened.
A bull was pushing the door
crossing the threshold
and the assistant sprang into life,
all the china shop training rushing
flashing back into focus,
the induction course and the words of the trainer
“Never let a bull
or men in balaclavas inside the premises”
and she thought it was just folklore, a
running joke told to all new recruits, but there
on page 21 of her handbook
was a picture of a bull with a big red NO ENTRY sign across his brown flank.
She approached the bull, with broom in hand
she politely yet forcefully brushed him out,
“We don’t serve your kind here,”
she said and as the bull turned around
she could swear she say a tear fall from his eye.