Ask

 Ask

 

Since you ask, I didn’t.

 

Ask.

 

To fill out your screed,

about a nosebag full of prefab feed

and what satisfaction canst thou have tonight

just because I was seized

by a compulsion for Italian. 

Well, I can't get me none.

 

Oh, you'll kick down curtains

with both feet,

wrench open the windows

grin and greet

a brand new morning

until, with no warning,

she shoves an odyssey of chores

into the back flap of your drawers,

cumulonimbus rising

like knitted sacks,

yakkety yak – don’t talk back.

 

Or in your case, do.

What did I think? Here’s a clue.

 

A bussed in ambience

from Whipsnade Zoo,

with primitives on table two,

released from primordial warrens,

trying to unravel the knife and fork,

and all you do to me is talk, talk -

talk, talk, talk, talk.

 

A tooth mug your waiter’s brought

of cheap lemon squash,

a pipette drop

was not enough to wash

them down - stuck in my craw,

boot them in the out doors,

nobble them in the knackers

while I knock back the teaspoonful

which won’t show on the bill –

his looks say it all:

I should be grateful for the gratis.

 

Know now, thou villain,

and despair thy charm -

those breadsticks were untimely ripped

from their plastic packet,

thrust untidy in a vase

like sunflower stalks post menopause,

wilted and dry in salad beds.

 

Even Doctor Munigant would think twice,

balk at the price,

shake his bony flute in dread

and go for the warmed up crisps

with cheese on top instead.

 

Why not try our Olive Spread?

Freshly bought from Tesco,

chucked into a curated bowl,

with all the panache of scuttled coal.

 

That Dover sole

hauled itself onto dry land to get here,

limped up the M2, gimped down the A30,

bedraggled and dirty,

it rusts in peace, scarcely a feast,

tossed on top of linguine,

but it would be unseemly

to send it back, given the effort it took

to get itself off the hook

and make its way to my table.

 

Putting his phone down,

if he’s able,

your pustuled waiter

is less than glad,

to wipe down the table with his rag,

passes a serrated paper ripped off

his pad –

 

I can count,

it’s a whopping amount,

a Fort Knox of an invoice -

it demands, in childish hand,

something equivalent to the national debt,

but wait, wait, there’s more yet;

can I give him a tip?

 

Yes.

 

Since you ask.

 

That deep freeze home-thawed tart citron

was the final straw,

I’ll pay your bill, you’ll get no more,

and if you wish to gaze upon another day

don’t send me a bloody survey.