midnight and he's making pies
i didn't know he could roll pastry
uniform, thin
or use the term "egg wash" so naturally
there are no eggs
and he fills up his pies with cheese
finds left over mincemeat on a shelf
dabs edges with a finger dipped in milk
seals his pies, perfectly
he's fast as a TV chef, shutting the oven
with his heel, that teacloth on his shoulder
at the table with gin martinis
we laugh at him, look at the photos
on the wall, him at four by the canal
in his chequered woollen coat
tonight it's simple to forget despair
the times i wished
for someone else's life
and know - as he lifts each little pie
onto the cooling rack, offers them to us
with their molten fillings bubbling
- all this wasn't a mistake
greedy for this happiness
we burn our tongues on it
