Bittersweet

Now,
down in the scullery
where pots ooze yesterday’s stink
and the dried waste on unwashed crocks
paints a promise of the day to come,
she’s watching .

Bodice stiff with starch and trepidation
shrouds her in a hush of white
paler even than the film of milk in the jug,
as the stairs creak.

Of course it’s not for her,
it’s never her
though she’s the better one
I think.
Hand on the other’s back
presses out a warning
as the other turns her head.
They hesitate
then make the inevitable move
each step a glue trap,
edging towards the opening door
until they’re gone.

Want to know what happens next?
Well that’s the best bit!

Bittersweet

With one glorious leap
I’m on the table
licking the gruel from the other’s bowl.
Perhaps I’ll help them on their way by
sampling the slops from yesterday’s pots
until the silence stops

much, much later.