1st September 1981
| Category: Poems | 0 Comments
A line of people and a bag of potatoes
and laughter in the queue as we stood
hoping not to get a mattress on the floor.
Bare wooden stairs to even barer dorms
and the bag burst and the potatoes fell
one by one down the steps,
a tattoo giving rhyme to hilarity.
Meeting over spuds the bond was sealed
by a late summer wasp,
putting me in hospital.
Were it not for broken bags and wasp stings
where would we be today?
If it was a bet, I wouldn’t take it.
