His old half hunter
dictated the time
making a space for itself
parked by the marmalade,
Introducing the bitter-sweet
summer fruits sharpening
sugared cereals
-milk blushed by raspberries.
It would be years before
my father would wear
a wrist watch.
‘Till then breakfasts
were always at the mercy
of this scarred face
cracked the length
of its enamel.
Time rationed to the
top of the hour slowly filtered
into the morning traffic,
when towns seep out to work.
Then the ache poisoning
the pit of my stomach.
A classroom reeking
of stale learning;
Victoriana by rote
and loathing.
