Hello How Are You by Natalia Spencer

I am not a silent poet

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.

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