" A cup of tea?, a bite to eat?"
"you stay there, I'll see to it"
I don't know where the sugar is,
how many spoons, or if,
I take a cup, not knowing,
it could be her favourite,
I'm sorry, I have to
use her kettle, stand by her sink,
look out of her window... I look for soup.
Old tins, packets past their use by date,
fray bentos, camp coffee, condensed milk.
"is there anything I can do for you?"
he slurps his soup, rug on knee,
radio (transistor) tuned to the news,
"you can prune the roses,
she didn't like to see the petals fall,
looked untidy, spoiled the bed"
dusky pink, a maidens blush,
vermillion, crimson, ruby red,
He tells me that he like's steak pie,
tea with two, potatoes fried,
corn-beef sandwiches, kippers smoked,
Old Holburn, Guinness, runny yolks,
funny, but he didn't say
if he liked the roses on the side.