When you Come again for Tea
toasting fork

It was fire-toasted crumpets on a fork,
that used to make my father mutter,
you know, a long spindly three-pronged sort
with the right amount of salted butter
that dribbles down your bosoms’gutter.
The right thing to do in company
is to excuse yourself to the pantry
where there’re napkins in the top dresser drawer.
So, when you come again to visit me
we’ll have buttery crumpets galore.

Frances March

If you have any comments on this poem, Frances March  would be pleased to hear from you.