In the bag
Five shunts slot the Princess into place.
Check the door and cross the road.
Down Zetland Street, past the decorator’s
where his mother worked only
I didn’t know it then, he was school
and this was Saturday.
Fine Fayre on the corner is my only stop,
for now I’ve passed the test I’ve learned
that shopping’s just another thing to do.
There’s never time to browse along
the High Street for dinner’s down to me,
while Mum mucks out the pigs.
Today’s settled: Saturday’s stew and dumplings,
diced shin already simmering on the range.
Sunday will be different. Hell’s bells,
my Dad had shouted, I’m sick of damn chicken
every week. I can’t remember when
we last had blessed beef.
Cutting between prison and fire station,
leave the scaffolded White Swan behind.
Following Mum’s directions hurry past
the glitz of double-fronted Woolies
and the GPO towards the Durham Ox.
Next door’s the butcher’s.
Gone those fledgling weeks of serves-six
frozen chickens in the trolley, nestling with
dog bones, gravy salt and lard. All those bits
of fresh dead flesh before me. She’ll be strawing
down the bullocks now and me not knowing
silverside from brisket.
He smiles, blade honed. A joint of beef, I say.
His hand slides underneath. Look him in the eye
unflinching. For Mrs Dennis. He hesitates.
I’m shown both sides, sinewless and streaked
with marble. Greaseproof wrapped, he hands
it to me, dripping blood.