The Chip Shop

by Edward O’Dwyer

There she is again.
Even your unspoken thoughts
you think in whispers
as you find yourself
there once more,
another Saturday night
you’re spending in
watching the telly.

If she knew the things
you’ve thought
as she has shovelled your chips
in a brown paper bag,
your two battered sausages,
extra salt and vinegar,
predictable as rain
on a bank holiday weekend . . .

Again your eyes wait,
patiently as ever,
giving nothing away,
for the moment from now
she’ll go to the till
with your always-crumpled fiver —
their chance
to undo the bow-tied strings
of her apron,
fondle the tight denim
of her arse

with just the allure alone
of her deep fry perfume
raising your cholesterol.