She would come out of school
with portions of food attached
to her cardigan, skirt and tie.
Pie, she’d reply, when asked what it was,
curry pie, pie lasagne, pie‘n’mash.
Every lad in her set
was her boyfriend –though she’d forget
which one was which. They remained unaware
of the status they shared
or so scared they’d pretend to be sick.
Now she’s learnt to discern
between pancakes and pizzas,
give spag bog and risotto their names,
we note a sartorial difference -
she arrives home free of food stains.
Can naming the dishes which we consume
help us proceed with more caution?
Is it luck, an alignment of fork and spoon?
We hope for some correlation:
next term it’s sex education.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Raymond
Miller would be pleased to hear them.