Black eyed potatoes yearn on the draining board
the peeler hides in the kitchen drawer.
And the washing line snapped under her weight
of disbelief. Today she sits outside a café
in an army town waiting, it seems, for someone
to dust a milk white heart
on her coffee.
She is a common sight here, hair swept up and airy
like the pre-made meringue in her net bag.
Somehow, she tells me, she’s lost ability to blend
sugar and albumen. And plump raspberries
for his Eton Mess are unavailable, as is
that first number in her directory
saved to speed dial.