Lit like a tabernacle, the fridge
does not contain a miracle
but only bits of bits in bowls.
The cat meows; the soft drum
of her belly beats for rollmop,
milk slops, bacon rind.
She?ll have to wait: life is full
of hanging around, I tell her.
(Mung beans? Ratatouille? Skate?)
The bachelor across the way
falls on his knees, reaches in the dark
for jars, while next door
lovers offer one another hearts
and cauliflowers, or pasta shells
the shape of babies? ears.
Upstairs, someone whose post
I once received weighs up
his appetite for take-away, walks
a Yellow Pages round and round
the hard wood floor.
In time, a scrap of moon appears.
I haven?t seen the muffin man
for years, or met a pieman
going to a fair, I?ve only stood here
talking to the Tupperware,
the dining table laid with light,
old receipts and unpaid bills,
working out a way of using up
these failing greens, a recipe
for half a weightless aubergine.
from Sunday at the Skin Launderette (Seren, 2008), copyright © Kathryn Simmonds 2008, used by permission of the author.