In our nuclear bunker
it is still and serene as a recording studio.
The paint has dried in the nursery.
We eat heartily from tin plates,
steaming chunks in gravy.
With one hand, you make your fork hang
in the air, like a seagull; with the other,
you heft the empty tin.
'Horsemeat, did you say?' you query,
squinting in that way
I have come to love
and hate.
And I could never lie to you, not really,
so I say: 'Yes, if you like,
you could call it that.'
Deliciously cringe-worthy with the realization. Yes!
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