Ah que bella!
Dad strolls from the city bus,
trilby tilted jaunty as always.
Blue touch paper’s under his arm –
pasta waits to explode.
A brown bag holds garlic, its white skin
rustles as he brings this regular
pay day treat from Fazzi’s.
In our mod-con formica kitchen
green oil and red puree sizzle
turning scot’s mince into magic.
Sunshine in a pot.
Our dreams smell of Dad’s Italy,
the only wartime smell he mentioned.
He carries the kitchen table out
to the sun where we watch him
toast Mummy. Their heart-red Chianti
winks in glasses. He teaches us
to kiss slurped spaghetti and think
of The Lady & the Tramp, never
the fighting in Salerno.
A version of this poem was published in Pod, Fat Damsel in 2016
No stablisers today
Gravel sharp grey crunching
ground slopes down acid
dandlelions crowd the edges
don’t go there don’t
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