were golden.
crisp and sodden, all at once.
Salt. Vinegar. Plastic fork. And
garlic sauce, in a polystyrene cup,
(which split softly in my grip
as I tipped it up).
The centre tines snap
off as I dig in,
but I don't care;
I scald my tongue in
haste and splutter steam
into the night air.
The sauce is all I ever wanted,
cool and tangy, great on chips.
And I'm starving,
scoffing, scarffing, and it's
dripping down my lips.
"You're gonna stink love!"
But I'm drunk, and I
could not care less.
(Garlic's fine and dandy when
there's no one to impress.)
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