Ambrosia

Ambrosia
Mark Mahemoff

Those late Sunday mornings
glitter amongst dross.
We'd both set off, father and son,
for snail cakes and rolls from our favourite bakery.
Then on to a delicatessen just across the road
whose owner's hooked nose
was a cartoonist's dream.
We'd buy cod roe and ambrosia cheese -
both of which smelled like unwashed socks -
and arrive back home to revel in excess,
laughing like a family where food and humour
were used as camouflage
in a war of unmet needs.