a fifty first new poem ... 'in the soup'

Frank smuggled an apology from his beard.

He had a ketchup stain on his chest the

Colour of tomato soup, some other

Gloop.

Eileen sighed

And sombrely ate a chip – Frank had

plied them with too much vinegar,

As usual.

She thought about pretending

To wretch,
But in fairness it would

Have been churlish, childish, so

Eileen fetched

A napkin instead,

Wiped underneath her eyes, red,

Turned down the corners of

Her mouth and screamed

Like a new born baby.

Maybe Frank would understand

For once, instead of

Being such a c**t.