Nothing tastes better than
fish n’ chips
in this Scottish town
After a long training run through narrow streets
past gardens and bowling greens and dogs barking with Scottish accents
sweat drenching, legs aching, ears ringing, rain pouring, sky draining, darkness descending
Bought for 3 pounds at the nearby chip shop
Where I imagine all the locals go
Where the chap behind the counter calls me “love”
and asks if I’d like “vinegar and salt with that?”
Where I fall briefly in love with the bloke doing the frying
whom I can just see in the back, his sideburns and sure hands,
the grease stains smeared on his white T-shirt suggestively.
The wooden fork is free but the ketchup packets are 30 pence each
which I don’t have but desperately want
so I make Dad return with more money to get the ketchup,
hoping the bloke in the back won’t realize we’re related.
Nothing tastes better than these same
fish n’ chips
when I collapse on my bed in our B&B
drunk with tiredness and in love with everything
Chewing, I just taste sweat and summer
and also an imagined flavor that makes me blush as I swallow
the frying bloke’s hot greasy mouth pressed against mine.
And then the complicated taste that I am ravenous for:
that triumphant taste of
vinegar and salt
I am devouring Scotland
I will never be full