In Praise of Greasy Spoons
Think oilcloth-covered tables,
urns dispensing robust brews, pepper
like beige dust. Swell your belly
with what's chalked up: rise and shine
with a full English, splutter ketchup
on chips, not fries. Pie and mash
with moss green liquor for those
with Bow bells ringing in their blood.
Nowhere better to nurse the morning after
or to forget what lies on the other side
of steamed up windows with sponges
in a pond of custard, syrup like molten amber.
Temple to old school dinners, here hymns
to suet puddings sung, incense of sizzling rashers,
an offering to the God of stodge.
Stephen Bone
