Lips in Stitches

The way we have breakfast does vary. We don't have to share a table, because we share living here, in our lovely, ridiculous swamp, and that means we have to be a team, or there is no fire, no jam, no cider, no comfort and no fun. Laughing is still more important than wishes! 

Pour porridge oats, the texture
Yielding and rough, mix to taste,
Mine is a thick paste, undercooked
And flavoured with jam

This morning I choose quince
From the jam scrap jars massing
In the fridge, dump a spoonful
Into the chipped bowl of hot oats

By western standards we are
Not wealthy, nevertheless
Five kinds of jam can be found
Here in our refrigeration device

Boy likes supermarket generic
Hoops and milk, he holds the bowl
With 2 equidistant flaws, while he
Heckles the stats of the M1 Grant tank

Mr, after walking twice through
The house, spectacle hunting, settles
For hoops and milk, sat at his laptop
Folds it out like a morning paper

I think I dream as much by day
Not to escape, to reiterate
Things previously noted
It means something, being here

The woodburner squats
Fat iron demi-god of the
Hearth, gaping open
Double door mouth

Last nights cinders puff
Chuck out a residue of warmth
Even a shot of flame, from yesterday
Time overlapping, clinker built

Spoon makes a line which
If visible, would loop
The lips in stitches
To the bowl

Contemporary breakfast tableaux
Mr in the hallway office, Boy
Considers Military History channel
Just me in the grubby kitchen


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