Tired Old Meat
The cook dealt with the competition. And you,
the blinking athlete, thought it was about petit fours,
yuzu jellies and quindin. I heard the din all right.
The clash of cleavers. The splish and the splosh.
I liked his knives from the start. Sabatier in spirit,
fully forged in blade, bolster, tang and handle.
I even heard you say, “Don’t worry. I’m here. Hunky
dory. Don’t forget.” You were always talking daft.
You made your bed on the landing where the stairs
turn. “Now for that whisky,” you said.
The cook and I, boozed up for breakfast, ate loganberry
pâte de fruits with crab on hot buttered toast.
He called me Sweetmeat Turnover. I called him Lairy.
I asked him to mash up a billy-can supper.
He said he’d use the tired old meat.
Amanda Oosthuizen’s novels, short story collection, poetry collection and flash fiction collection will be posthumously self-published. Meanwhile, work is forthcoming in Cosmonauts Avenue, Storgy, LossLit, Riggwelter, Under the Radar, Prelude, Humanagerie and Ambit. She earns her living by writing and arranging music and teaching woodwind. http://amandaoosthuizen.com @amandaoosty
Lonesome October Lit 