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Kate Rancid
The first one plops, fizzes and begins to fade away
Before the second has even left its pouch,
Like a miracle of science in my kitchen.
The second, not so miraculous, crumbles to dust as it
leaves the packet.
Snow-fall of white powder on the table.
Oh no.
Chaos.
With hands like congealed semolina, clammy and disobedient,
Frantically waving, wiping, scooping,
Must . . . not . . . lose . . . any . . .
Must . . . not . . . lose . . . any . . .
Until finally all is captured and -
Into the glass at last!
And now to wait.
Waiting bad.
Head wrong. Wrong head.
Numb pain.
Dizzy and sick.
Too big.
Bed. Bed.
Too late.
Beg Please hurry.
Finally it settles in a mist of beautiful clarity.
Each iridescent bubble a marvel.
Each drop survival.
And now to drink.
Bollocks that tastes rancid.
