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Joe Warner

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Blind Scouse & Spotty Dog

“What’s this?” I ask my mam
Head down in to shoulders
In case she should swing for me
As she often said she would
“You’ll like it, it’s scouse”
“Where’s the meat?”
“Can’t you see it’s blind scouse?
Speciality of our poor house.”

Head still bowed I break through
The oily surface tension
With some organic crusty bread
That once was white and doughy.

Blind scouse has no meat
Our dog Spotty has no spots
But I brace myself and eat
Knowing it will not age well
And three days left to Friday.

I sneak a bit to Spotty
He sniffs and licks it only once
Not a fan of haute cuisine, he leaves
To rummage in someone else’s bin
I watch his goosestep march
Toward the open door
Burnt one week before.

Full of bonhomie, my luncheon ate
I cheerfully ask, “What’s for pudding?”
Head not down far enough
Mam smacks me for my cheek.

Blind scouse has no meat
Our dog Spotty has no spots
Mam’s tears stain her cheek
Perhaps she’s hurt her hand
On my thick head.

 

Page(s) 54

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