writing tally charts in crystal tang
along the scars from bloody battles –
fought with chewy lightning
that shoots through eight ounce sirloins
or the chitin hull of lobster claws
or the single eyes of marrow
and bone yet to be scalpeled from lamb chops
with toothless dinner knives
– that end with prawn husks who stare
over the rim to the next table
where a trunk of fat is thrown to the dog
and a crumpled white napkin stained
with bean sauce is laid over greasy steel –
all the while I'm rubbing salt into the wound
They arrive with a song of olive oil
still hot on their skins
to be scraped along my battle china
like a rake through an autumn garden
leaving dabs of yellow and spice
to be mopped up later with crusty bread
22nd February 2013
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