It is illegal to smoke (mince pies) in these premises,
We will re-open (cream) on Friday 28th at 08:26,
W(h)ines by the bottle,
we sell (humour) gift vouchers.
I sat beside the bag lady
preventing her overcoat
from being (whipped) cream.
Richard’s ebony hair glistened
with perspiration, behind candles
that dripped red calcified wax
to a fine point suspended over
pastry laced with sugar water.
His smile reflected
from the surface of a teaspoon
that had never seen a better day
– just as the jigsaw, fixed to the glass
that protected the map of the island,
cast shadow over Cork
– just as the woman of the house
squeezed a clothes-horse
under the reindeer’s bauble.
“I’m going to Jackson … “
reminded me of Tammy Wynette
and Santa’s brother, last seen
outside Boise wielding a pickaxe and shovel
wanting work whenever women
would watch him waffle on about
“the land of many waters”.
Idaho Cafe is deeper than the Grand Canyon
in affections,
and shorter in afflictions
because bunyons are bound to blush
unseen under square tables.
‘This is forever”, every mince pie,
Esto Perpetua,
there is no Dracula here,
Huckleberries cry.
A locally-owned Breakfast, Lunch, Bapini,
Sweet fix,
with drinks like Idaho
americano, espresso, cappuccino,
marshmallow
– lest you go past the best cafe in Ireland
(voted by aficionados)
without noticing blackboards
full of chalked wines
on the Saturday before Christmas.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 