The Butter Roll and Child

The child picks the roll up from the red plastic plate
Brittle bits break off the hard barrel
It is a pallid, gold-brown colour-with hollows and yellowish seeds
His mother might have cut it from a long, fresh French stick

The child nibbles the crust, and finds it chewy
Scattering crumbs and flakes of bread over the freshly vacuumed carpet
Interest is soon lost in the whole thing, the healthier part
The battle is too great for a young jaw and new teeth

The child crooks a pink finger into the spongy middle
With little effort or sound, the buttery gits are ripped without mercy
From the tough exoskeleton
Whilst the white, greasy innards are consumed

The child drops the unwanted body of his lunch
A dog sniffs the off-cast meal
Steals it with a wagging tail, away in to the garden
A mother shouts her exasperation and dismay