Can see that biscuit dust flying, Max.
Bill
On 11/12/2014, at 3:57 AM, Max Richards wrote:
> 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.
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