Yorick Yearns for Harry Ramsden’s

By Andrea Porter

Some think the skull a personal thing
but it’s only Tupperware for the brain.
I am hostage now to late night drunks
who kick me back and forth to cries of
Oi, over here ya’fucker, on me head
or to stray dogs who root in the basin
of my cranium for scraps of old kebab.
A gaunt Goth boy wandered past once,
posed with me, as his gormless friend
took photographs on a mobile phone.
Both looked in need of a decent meal,
I always was a comfort eater myself.
Cod and chips, the tang of vinegar;
the low hum of decent lard in arteries,
could hymn me to a place better than
this eternity with no mushy peas.

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