EVERYONE HAS A BOOK INSIDE

She s-mothered him till he was forty-five, her precious child,
fussing over him, prune lipped and pillow breasted,
a benevolent dictator.

He simmered like the bubbling fat in the fryer
of the family fish'n'chip shop.
Three Generations Son!!!

He despised it, and her. The acrid smell
of grease and the way it
clung to everything.

What he really wanted, was to paint a Masterpiece
or write a Bestseller or go hot air ballooning
up the Orinoco.

One Sunday afternoon, he was painting the masterpiece
that was the kitchen door and she was prattling
ON and ON about potatoes.

When it suddenly occurred to him that
there was NOT that much
to say about potatoes.

He saw his life then, peeled and chipped.
Deep-fried and wrapped up in
yesterdays newspaper

discarded on a Friday night, cold and half eaten
and he pushed her in the chipper.
Then, inspired

he picked up his pen and a fresh sheet of paper.
Smoothed it carefully. At last!
Fodder for the bestseller!