The Salty Dog

crank the burner. wait till the flame goes blue.

throw in the capers, let them jump around like drunk bastards in the oil. anchovies too, those little pricks dissolving into the grease until they own the pot. slice the onions thin. garlic filling the room. and the green chillies flown in from Kenya. cut them long. leave the white guts in. that’s where the fire lives. that’s the kick. tomatoes from the corner store. soft, split. spice from the trader’s bell in Whitechapel. olives that taste like soil. a fistful of parsley.

everything goes in a skillet from Christmas past.

it bubbles and spits in the kitchen. I’m standing there half-cocked on red, thinking about Naples, that stinking city. thinking about Layla. her legs, her laugh, the gap in her teeth. she left without a note. gone.

the sauce thickens. I light a cigarette off the gas flame.

fuck it. dinner’s ready.

smokes on the counter,
one skillet of someone gone,
the sauce turning thick.