The Greasy

Chipped Formica, the odd chipped mug
Chips with everything
Over the encrusted plastic sauce bottles
I watch an old man wipe his nose inbetween
Eating mouthfuls of liver and bacon.
I make polite conversation
Brought on through self-consciousness
At the gap between our years
And the closeness of our plates.
He tells me he’s burying his wife in the morning
His thick voice matching suspended thick tears
‘Married for almost fifty years,’ he says.
Pushing egg around my plate
I offer commiserations
Over shouts of orders to the kitchen
For lunchtime specials with a fried slice.
My head swims amid dead wives, midday meals
And the smell of bacon
The bread of my thoughts soaking up
The voices in the gravy

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