The Golden Egg

White bread, Sunblest,

Stork margarine,

A thin blueish grey veil,

Of Rothmans smoke,

Hangs between us,

Formica table top,

With vinyl wood effect,

A plastic primary rouge tomato,

Gammy at the spout,

A thin arterial red vinegar,

Spurts out, over crinkle-cut chips,

You put one to your lips,

A solitary pallid, anaemic yolk,

On a crispy-edged speckled white,

Sidles suggestively up to a sausage,

You have tea for 1,

+1 hot chocolate,

We sip together,

All the Grannies and Nannas smoke and natter,

And smoke,

And chatter,

Like an arthritic birdsong,

Varicose,

Loud,

Business is booming,

At The Golden Egg,

In 84,

Before

The recession took its legs

And staggered into the town,

And our favourite haunt,

We had lantern traybake for afters,

A little laughter,

Something we shared,

At the Golden egg

M. Joseph Burt  (27.6.6)