D is for Barbeque

Bar Be Que

(The Preparation)

The kebabs
marinated in malice
are now spears
you twist with spite

my friend and I
sit with spiked cigarettes
and ignore your barbs
and pointed remarks
regarding my unhelpfulness

they leave me whispering
"you're lucky I'm here at all"
whist my guilt prompts me
to smile and fetch the bread

(The Meal)

The crisp green salad is
carelessly tossed aside
in favour of buttered potatoes

we have only a passing conversation
(the cutlery, mayo, salt)
all talk is stilted except
with our godchildren
who as always delight us both

the dessert
(prepared by my friend and I)
is heavily sugared
but is unable to mask the
sourness of the day

(The Remains)

Charred remnants
(black as your looks)
discarded toys that
litter the garden
a mess more easily cleared
than the one we are living with

There's a storm cloud gathering

Dave Randall? August 2000