CRUSTS:

Dough, mixed, kneaded, floured & neatly caked,

Into the oven, warm, fragrantly & lovingly baked,

Wrapped, stamped, priced & placed on shop´s shelf,

Where mother bought the loaf for family & herself.

For kids at home, sliced, buttered & thickly jammed,

For husband, with cheese, pickles & pinkly hammed,

Family tucked in with hungry appetite´s greedy lust,

Except for the littlest, the baby, who didn´t want crust.

Mum cut toasty soldiers to dip into yellow runny egg,

Appeasing the baby, to stop him whining & not to beg,

Although throwing away the crusts she thought was a sin,

Mother scraped the leftover eggy crusts right into the bin.

The bin-men came with midnight & took the rubbish away,

Torn & tattered, the bag broken, leaving the rubbish astray,

And lying forgotten on sodden street lay the cut-off crusts,

Now dirty & abandoned, covered in slime, murk & urban dust.

With night´s eyes watching every corner of cold silent street,

Only sound heard, the echoing steps of watchman on his beat,

The crusts on the poor man´s pavement, is now the only aim,

Of those skulking, watching from dark corners; a deadly game.

The race is on, who´s to win, cur, cat, hobo or the very hungry hag?

All watching the crusts, ready to stuff into jaw, maw & old paper bag,

Now mouldy & green, hard & incrusted with the street´s cruel dust,

That long-ago, but now forgotten, warm, buttered & fragrant crust.