Mushroom
You said you liked the restaurant
but I knew you hated the mushrooms.
It wasn’t just these mushrooms,
as if they were a special form of gross,
in butter next to the steak on your plate,
it was any mushrooms, any time
or place, raw, cooked, or even a few measly
pieces in an innocent but hated spag bol.
I sipped my Shiraz and watched,
amused as you removed them,
lifting your plate and scraping them
on to mine with a look of disgust.
I jabbed some with my fork
as you sipped your Pepsi,
avoiding watching the consumption of fungi.
We never discussed mushrooms again
and at home I tossed the paper bag out.
Peter Cartwright
September 2016
