At the ice-cream counter you reject
With Malvolio priggishness my attempts to tempt,
Turn your back on burlesque photos
of Peach Melba, Broadstairs Surprise, Banana split…
'I just want a proper frothy coffee,'
strut off to examine the juke box.
My diet’s resolve this Easter has already
capitulated into a full blown bender
so I order Knickerbocker Glory.
At melamine table in Lloyd Loom chair,
I scoff the sundae’s whipped cream head;
ogle pink-lit Liberace shell-encrusted fountain,
cornet-cast door handles, 99-shaped wall lamps.
Melted droplets splatter my dress,
I dab with serviette, too sugar high to care
that my occasional eating incontinence makes you look away.
At home, your child-sized meals,
make my adult plate seem free-buffet greed.
Eating, I try to match your dissection pace
but soon revert to my Labrador gulp.
Shuffle my knife and fork around an empty plate
until you have caught me up.
Shame that our shared sexual appetite
does not extend to similar desire for food.
If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be
pleased to hear from you.