You carefully consider
Maris Piper or Jersey Royal,
lost in thought ―
somewhere in the Channel Islands.
I look sideways at your foraging.
Del Monte, cat food ―
you can tell so much
from the contents of a lonely cart.
You choose a kind King Edward,
as I pretend to be interested in whole oats.
I feel the precision of your choice
in my throat.
I see you being swept away,
smoothing olive oil on the skin ―
a good slow roast ―
cheeky potato salad for one.
Thank you R.A.D. Stainforth for expertly reading this poem.
|photo by Agustin Berrocal|