(Skinny, Decaf) Tea With The Vicar
“Forgive me, Father,” she said, “for I have skimmed.”
The full-fat tea completely missed the sink
and puddled the top, swelled and over-brimmed,
cascading down cupboards as if to chink
the reverend’s cool and tempt forth a splay
of Eastertime zest with the putrid stink
of God-awful tempers on Bad Friday,
but failed and snaked off towards the fridge.
“Forgive me, Father, you won’t be cross I pray?”
He assured the shop was just across the bridge ,
but her shrill didn’t dampen, rather it rose-
making at cake as if it were cartridge,
she clasped at her stomach through children’s clothes,
“Would you get an apple too? I can’t eat those.”
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