in this flat no one ever feels like eating.
since when was it this way –
“we all eat everything, i trained them from young”
bean sprout? get the plates out;
liver? who’s faster?;
fish eye? a fist fight;
third serving? oh we’re all in.
we had four stomachs eight plates,
then dessert: two hot, two cold,
a cake knife, and a box of agar agar
whose colours played striptease with
every three hundred meals.
the last layer was white.
in this flat no one ever liked the coconut layer
the red bean paste
the attap chee
the under-every-plate grease
lying aside the fractured-finger-fork.
neither wants a fuck; neither gives a fuck.
i walked an hour to take away.
when i returned to kiss the handles
the knocks on every door kept them locked.