In memory of a gravy boat shaped like a cow - a macabre idea if there ever was one - that lived in a glass cabinet and never, to my knowledge, got used for its intended purpose
A mirror makes a meadow for a lolling tongued Jersey cow that stands four-square and hollow backed waiting for the gravy that never and probably won’t ever arrive.
Empty as a cave, she gazes on Sunday’s picturesque puzzle. The elaborate social ritual, moves orchestrated so that each segment joins another although someone always contrives to step on someone else’s toes in a claustrophobic timeless time bomb where the talk eventually explodes.
She snuffs up steam from the swell of cabbage water - hears the snap of ring pulls and the rounding up of chairs from all four corners as the table grows wings.
The front door left open
to let in sun
through the swirls
of dust motes.