It’s not fancy
Marg-a-rine.

Roll the sound, roll
it around and it
sounds like it should,
tastes like it shouldn’t.

A poor man’s butter-
side down?

Cloyed aftertaste
sticks to the roof
of churches and schools,
how bizarre, a bazaar.

’Cept Mrs Effendowicz’s…
Butter wouldn’t melt.

Margarine slides the wedding ring ___ off
the wrong finger
denting pride
for a couple more years.

It’s all just blurb really
and cake.

But that curl on top
of virgin tubs,
deserted expectations
and a baby’s tuft.