There is nothing quite so perfect
as hot chips in summer rain.
Eaten, hood up, shoulders hunched
speared on a wooden fork.
The scent of happiness lifted
from underneath the sheltering lid
of a polystyrene carton,
bringing warmth to a shivering day.
The best ones are on top.
Fat sticks of golden potato,
salved with ketchup,
anointed with vinegar,
cooled by a sea borne wind.
Their fading heat comforts my mouth
with a thin coating of molten grease
and the tang of weak acid.
I stroke the bare ones,
sharing out the ketchup,
coating the bare chips
with long thin smears of pale red.
Just right. Perfect.
A small black dog watches,
lips moving anxiously.
We eat together, delicately,
taking each chip into an open mouth
with careful attention, one by one,
until only the scraps are left
and an eager, searching, desperate mouth
bolts them down from the pavement,
all control gone.