Crumbs
My barista serves me latte-
to-go, bags my sultana
scone, saying
Mind the crumbs -
unless you’re feeding
birds. - Oh, crumbs?
They feed my nostalgia.
Child with a shilling -
good biscuits were
unaffordable,
the grocer might offer
you instead, cheap,
in a plain bag,
broken biscuits that he’d
gathered up while
unpacking and repacking
all those varieties.
A child could walk home
slowly sampling half a
ginger, half a choccy,
half a raisin, fractions
of malt, oatmeal, wafer,
macaroons,
descending to the crumbs,
upending the bag
to half a handful
of mere smithereens.
As he reaches his
front gate, he can
inflate the bag, crush-crash
it between his palms -
bang, dry powder
flies from the wreck.
|