When the Queen comes to tea.

I sit and watch you bleed

over half peeled potatoes,

the peeler full of skin

and the blood, orange against

the beige potato wetness.

 

You salt boiling water

and sweat into it,

using the tea-towel to dry yourself.

I hear your fingernail scrape at old specks

of food as you wash up,

the suds dissipate

and yellowed water slurps

down the plug hole.

 

I see you wipe the crumbed surface:

morsels off the counter to be

trodden into the sticky floor.

You plate up;      

                   

                  

                       Peppercorn sauce

                                       

                                       Steak

              Butter + Mint

            Potatoes

                                         

                                            Peas

 

 

 

 

You wipe the edge of the plate,

spillage replaced with perspiration

and serve to a nonchalant Queen.

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