Plat Du Jour



A day that crumbles through my hands, yet lands pleasingly.
After the trek to the police station to report it missing, the lost wallet turns up, for example.
I made it to the first hour of tournament training, rediscovered side kicks, skipped a shower because I forgot to bring spare clothes.
A steel thermos lid-cup of coffee waits on the dashboard while I rig up the sat nav. Metal conducts heat, I am reminded. But there's a cloth to hand, to insulate my fingers after the first burn. Drove to meet Baby Girl, and she is the one who was only born yesterday.
She pulls a face when I steal her from Grandad. Granmas used to smell of talc and palma violets, not sweat and muscle rub.
Baby Girl has robust hiccups.
All the time the sun shines.
At home, eat the last of the fridge chilled brioche.
Crumbs on a gold plate wait: I'll wash up tomorrow.



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