that once I’d polished off
the plums
I started on your quiche
which melted in my mouth
with a whiff of goat
and you’ll notice
I didn’t leave a crumb
of the pastry you’d worried over
then heaped potato salad, sticky,
flecked with chive, balsamic
vinegar sliding down my chin
next I found some Spanish omelette
cooling on the sill
and bit right through
its simple cross-section
onion, potato, onion
soft as kissing
I ate the chocolate
strong and dark and hidden
meant for some future cake
but saved three squares for you
now I’m clutching
a heel of bread
your thumbprint in it
in everything