Thin taste of it, spooned,
a red trace marooned
on snow white plates,
dwarfed by grey National Health bread.
“Lift your head.
No sticky fingers on the bedstead.”
“Bu..bu .but my mummy spreads it,
cuts each slice without crusts.”
Distorted face turned, mouth snapped shut,
speechless like the Beadle, twisted soul,
as he who dared asked for more.
Clatter of sensible shoes faded.
I cried for comfort, to be soothed.
No one moved. One drawn out sigh,
a voice called between cough.
“No soft butter sonny, only hard marge.
Think yourself lucky your home tomorrow,
while I’m on my way to the Vale of Sorrow.”
Next day his bed was stripped bare.