Pan-frying

Knuckled into the roomy kitchen,

lid-heavy eyes macerate

in my gossamer memory,

the cheap red wall clock

is the midday sun,

towers, seethes.

I forgot to buy milk again.

I forgot to buy cereal again.

I release an end slice of bread,

all that’s left, suffocating

in excess thin plastic,

relinquish it in the two-slot toaster,

still, pop-up shock.

Inclined over the cooker,

narrow wooden spatula in hand,

I hockey shriveled,

sliced

closed cup mushrooms

in a black hole pan,

press down

rubbery flesh,

sizzle, squeak,

push earphones up against

the half-pipe steel edge,

for too long.

I sift

through most days like this:

trail prolonged coastlines,

worn feet carry my mentality;

peer out at the pan-round sun

retreating behind the juncture;

listen to quick-turn cars on quiet roads,

tyre-screech against gravel:

wherever

one thing meets another.

David Hanlon is from Cardiff, Wales, and currently living in Bristol, England. He is a qualified counsellor/therapist. You can find his work online in Into The Void, Barren Magazine, Mojave Heart Review, Riggwelter Press and forthcoming with Homology Lit, Nine Muses Poetry and Drunk Monkeys, among others.