Sunday morning, my dad
with the News of the World,
picking Bob’s Your Uncle at 10 to 1.
My mum in a titchy kitchen,
joined by a ***
of pongy tangerine cells,
raw tongues in a pan.
The tang of frying bread
tanned brown tickles my nostrils,
sizzles like Velcro on trainers.

Now my brother
in crimson pyjamas
walks in, plonks down for a plate
of six-hundred calories
all before midday.
Three meaty tubes
next to two yellow moons.
The mist of oil,
of grease clogs the air.
Tuck in.