A little bit of Manchester


A comforting life along the shore
Not dull at all
Just enough novelty to feel fresh and alive
There’s a butcher eyeing a prime cut of beef
As if a deeper metallic value hides within

An accountant is honest on his taxes
And orders the swordfish
Only to send it back and ask for the oatmeal

A woman walks by
An entourage in tow
She gestures with a quick hand
And the rough looking crew gets to work
The lights turn off
Gasps and whispers

But the restaurant is just changing hands
“I’m sorry sir, we don’t carry the oatmeal anymore”
“Breakfast at all?”
“No, ‘fraid not”
“Just something extra salty. Anything, really.”

A boar’s head is brought out in flickering candlelight.
It was the accountant’s birthday.


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