Yesterday's Bread

Something of substance the man says. 

Where's the beef? How about bread?

OK, how about this work in progress, 

written last week in Corsica. 

I know, I know, it doesn't rhyme...

Yesterday's Bread

'Everyday but sunday' she says

Glancing over my shoulder

As she counts out change

I am not yet 'of the village'

So have worked my way 

From the back of the queue

Every day but sunday

In the shadow of St Augustin

Crusts offered reluctantly

From the back of a white van

'Voila, you were lucky'

She draws a dark brown oddment

From within, then

Steps to her left

Blocking my view

I bound home with flour on my chest

To find you in the kitchen

Tea cups brimful

Over your shoulder I see

The remnants of yesterday's bread

"Always leave a crust 

To show you're not in need"

Terry's chant

"Waste not, want for nothing"

I am my father's son

So every dawn we test our teeth 

On yesterday's crust

Leaving the soft and fresh 

For tomorrow

You hold me hopefully

As I picture pater

Tight lipped and wanting

Pressing broken teeth

Into the back of his smile