the diner

The Diner

The man who runs the small cafe at the petrol station
not far from my home, rang he was serving bacalao
tomorrow. The Portuguese has a way of making dry cod
into the food of deliciousness.

Tomorrow he, or rather his wife, is serving fried bacalao
with garlic and fried, small potatoes it is important the spuds
are small as to soak up the fat and garlic.  He is also serving
creamy rice pudding, not a pathetic low-fat thing
I will not worry about making a blood test, needles and worries
have no place on such a day

Sunday morning, toast without butter and black coffee, suffer
no more little man, diabetes, we all has a cross to bear.
two thousand years ago there was a man who tried to bring an
end to exploitation, he lost, but the fight continues.