Sunday afternoons were for white rice and fried stew.
Loosening and plaiting hair with snub Ilaruns,
Rubbing pomade between hair partings,
Tucked in the crustacean embrace of mummy’s laps,
Seeing but not watching LTV’s lousy movie adverts,
Till NEPA strikes again and hand fans replace ceiling rotors.
Dad’s friend mulling over a big bottle of Satz,
Gently pulling beard wisps; his lips repeating
His single story.
They were just short stories about small fry
In small towns, living their small lives.