His parents always knew he would become a chef

Victor in the back yard.
Slugs rear beneath a blizzard
of Maldon sea salt.

Then bicarb of soda
in the bird feeder.
Foaming at the beak,
pigeons drop
like jettisoned ballast
from a hot air balloon.
Fat-necked swifts and sparrows
choke on their throats,
crash and spasm
in local pub gardens.

He leaves half-full
pots of apricot jam
open on the windowsill,
waits for the wasps
to get stuck in
before sealing the lid,
rattling the jar
like a cocktail shaker,
listening to the static,
lets them fizz their final hours
with glazed wings,
candied antenna,
sugar-dazed and epileptic.

*

Grown up, working
in Angeletto's Italian Restaurant.
Victor breaks
the pepper mill's neck
over warm chicken salad.
He likes to tenderise;
the dent of his knuckles
in a three ounce steak.
The restaurant is small
and some of the regulars
smoke thin cigars
and eat carbonara.
He adds a sput
of cum from a Vaseline tin
as he stirs in the double cream.