The angst, new tallboy, filling space,
about vague layout, breakfast noon,
drift toaster smoke that fills all rooms
and suits those drifter refit dreams.
With pot plant weeds and lowered blinds,
rolled joints to brighten Sunday lunch,
spice rack, all rave and wavy type,
here bottled sauce on all-day mat,
though all night service, meal on tap.
Old pressure cooker on the stove,
where steam released before explodes,
the only rôle now, constant meals,
between the jams, coarse cut preserve.
A chip-bored chalk board, lanky string,
things cool, slow turn extractor fan,
range lotions, sprays past sell-by date,
though sinking feeling, iFood App.
This canteen needs a polish, scrub,
vim with Eucryl – enamel stains;
the macerator unrequired –
blancmange, mangetout, they’re all the same,
junk food, but not the junket kind?
A sister, kitchenette you know,
is more refined, less appetite,
her Ascot, geyser, not a hat.
This greasy spoon yet licensee,
pass condiments on to the chef,
a complement for cooking bee.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, most recently Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Parliament Literary Magazine, Poetry Potion, Grand Little Things, The Poet Magazine. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/