Writer, Poet

In Praise of Chips

The underground network of eyes
supports and nurtures. Each assists
the others in the leaching out of poisons
earthed by neutral dark space.

When the time is right, the whole lot
is lifted, separated and washed. Comforts
are installed with the stirring-in of milk,
butter and pepper, and fluffing up
the mushy mass — or it emerges
in fast-food outlets in cities such as London
or Liverpool —

where your man, eight pints down, slurs
waspishly to his wife: “D’yer wan’ chips?”
“Yer wha’?”, his wife replies. He repeats
the seeming slur. She nods, consentingly.

Salt and vinegar are applied
and it is held aloft above the queue,
to be passed on like an Olympic flame —