Over Tapas She Said
A decade now, these hot dumb potatoes:
jackets off, we bake a glaze over
each others eyes, each others foibles.
Horrible now, to think of the waste.
No patatas bravas these,
I mean, its earth-basic, its Irish,
chilli, tuna, prawns, beans, cheese,
you can top it up however you want to
- its flavourless. Pub grub,
without even the nous to be nouveau.
Darling, I suffer carelessly,
keep dragging my heart through
some Dagenham of the soul,
but what does it know?
It gave up learning the day
I first hooked up with sons of the soil.
She says her hands are always warm as spring,
But without butter and salt, it tastes of nothing.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Joanna Quinn would be pleased to hear from you.