Food, Glorious Food!
A revival of Oliver! in the West-End and a long cold winter during which I've stuffed myself rotten with sweets and snacks has inspired a snacky poem. Perhaps some of you have more sophisticated tastes in food which you could write a poem about?
CRISPS*
The Smiths Potato Crisps my gran gave me
were always stale: pale curled potato slices
never firm but soft and malleable,
the blue wrapped twist of salt, a solid round
shot needing to be crushed to sprinkle over
chewy crisps. The oxymoron did
not trouble me, it was another part
of life’s strange puzzle to be marvelled at.
And neither did it cross my mind to ask
why granny’s crisps were always soft and stale,
it never dawned on me that grandma did
not buy the crisps to eat the things herself.
If I’d have been a brighter, nicer boy
I might have realised the crisps were bought
for me and that my trips to gran’s were too
infrequent for them ever to stay fresh.
*I think in the US these are called Potato Chips.
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