Tomato Soup

I remember the soup that came in a shell.

Impenetrable cream of tomato.

It used to reside in the family pan,

thicker than treacle and hotter than jam.

The pan, with the handle that swivelled about

but was safe if you didn’t take liberties.

Dad had ‘the way’ with the tin opener clout,

I got a palm full of bruises.

Released from its tin, the thick concentrate

like lava reluctantly oozes.

A gelatinous skin will be left in the pan

and the spoon in the mug will stand up.

Smile extensions will spread from

each side of your mouth,

from the sun setting dribbles you sup.

In its pan it heats gently, keeps itself quiet

till you check it, then … plap… it will say.

As the red molten geyser erupts in a riot,

but only, only… only ever on a white shirt day!