Scrambled Eggs

  Into your hands I commend the beating of tonight’s eggs. This will be the last meal of solid food. — When my Dad was in the final stages of his cancer, one of the few things he ate was scrambled eggs. That period of my life still circles in my mind. It was a strange

118A Creighton Avenue

Behind cardboard boxes, I’m in the corner. Leaning on a cushion, I’m in the dark. Potatoes are humming rich smells from the oven. Getting the girls to bed: they have to be given a bottle each; it’s tea and bath before. When they’ve gone to sleep The grownups eat tired potatoes at 9pm. It’s always

Salad with mackerel

tonight I’m gonna feed myself right from a bag with apples and the thrill of eager walnuttes that press the beetroot neat sliced nice over rocket-watercress-spinach leaves stalks ‘n all spring-water washed — Eating right is important for an artist. Even Ella Fitzegerald and Louis Armstrong advocate this in ‘Frim Fram Sauce’. In truth, though,

She’d read it in books

“His father beat him around the head. Only a little bit on Wednesdays, after pay day, or on Friday late, after the races. Clean up your mess, boy!” The teachers preferred her creative writing to include such notable topics. So mature for her age! — In the accompanying essay to yesterday’s posted poem, I wrote