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Paul Feldwick

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Cranberry Crush

It was only after they’d taken him down
in the huge steel lift
that I realised we hadn’t eaten
since we left home. And as there was nothing
we could possibly do for the next three hours

we went out into the Fulham Palace Road
where the buses throbbed with their poisonous moods
and women with shopping bags laughed,
dawdling out of the greengrocer’s
and into the laundrette as if nothing was wrong.

The café was run by Greeks, it had uncomfortable
chairs too close together. Still trying to pretend
it was all an adventure, like the dayroom full
of toys, Postman Pat on the wall,
the pink balloons tied to the bars at the end

of the cot, I ordered a sandwich
that sounded like Christmas, but when it finally
came it was cold and thin,
white bread with one tiny pink stain
and a sliver of meat bled dry.

 

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