Julia can you help this one
who is heartbroken at the kitchen table?
Your own set of keys to
let yourself in past the
windowless passageway
to a brilliant lounge room
bamboo blinds rolled up.
No need to knock,
what could hear you anyway
above a terrible noise of self-pity
on matters so trite?
But the cut is real.
Julia can you slap out the snivel
and snuffles like a condemned building
with a vivid appetite for renewal?
At the kitchen table, all of us feast on
stick in the throat dough
and so, it is only the stomach that grieves
celery, salt, Port Salut.
