Wake up, late.
Dry mouth.
Morning after the house warming party before state
and yawning, stretch.
Slight retch
at tequila backwash acid.
Heavy lids
downstairs skid
past poltergeist pong of
overnight guests’ evacuations
exposing pot pourri’s limitations
and push open kitchen door.
Thirsty.
Detritus of guests
abandoned cups,
abandoned hats
for poetry and otherwise
plates on sides.
Kettle on: click
then the comforting promise of
pkchkchkchkchkchkch
as dry lips are licked in anticipation
of culmination
of delayed gratification.
Made three days previous
(and left out too long) grievous
sin to waste it though,
Too good to throw away.
Chocolate sprinkles, biscuit base,
New York style. The last piece placed
back on the shelf
in the fridge by itself
next to orange juice. Healthy.
A hangover cure.
Oh blessed breakfast, mon amour!
I reach for fridge door
stand on sticky spiky tines.
Raspy swearing cough
and hop
and hold my toe as I
sideways go
and fall against spillage stained sideboard.
Who would leave a fork on the floor
next to the fridge?
Grumpily slump
retrieve fork from floor
and squint.
What’s that?
Between tobacco stained finger and chipped painted thumb?
A crumb.
Suspicion aroused
fridge door open flung
to reveal:
Someone’s eaten my cheesecake!
My good friend Bill Strutt wrote a poem about cheesecake which is often requested and always performed with great aplomb. I wrote this in his style, in tribute to all the fantastic work he does to introduce poetry to people on a daily basis.
Bill has a great, deep growly voice which lends itself to characterisation, storytelling and the gift of the gab. An incorrigible poetry pusher, he can often be found performing at different events and open mics across the island. I urge you to experience his skill.
