The butcher carves veal for two.
The cloudy, frail slices fall over his knife.
His face is hurt by the parting sinews
And he looks up with relief, laying it on the scales.
He is a rosy young man with eyelashes
Like a bullock. He always serves me now.
I think he knows about my life. How we prefer
To eat in when is cold. How someone
With a foreign accent can only cook veal.
He writes the price on the grease-proof packet
And hands it to me courteously. His smile
Is the official seal of my marriage.