poetry critical

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Pea Soup

Mother’s in the soup,
quite literally believing
in divine properties of peas.
Father's fallen in,
raises one pea stained arm.
Alarmed he sinks fast,
his pea saturated socks
lock him to the bottom.
What should i do?
There’s a lilo
by the side of the pan.
I strap myself to it,
“I am coming to the rescue.”
like a fully grown man.
Dad’s still under.
I feel for him,
catch hold of his spoon handle.
It is empty.
“Eat your soup.” i command.
Mother does the butterfly stroke.
She spoke once last week,
now she’s about to speak again.
“The flavours wrong.
Not enough salt."
She’s always finding fault.
Dad lies among the thick peas
inside the pan.
I haul him out, he gives me a clout.
“Your a hero.” mother shouts.
Next time i will get ham in it.

14 Jul 17

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