The vicar sidled up to me with teeth
like toffees pressed into a new wound.
'I could help you decide what to cook your
beloved for tea,' he simpered, 'we
could do a jigsaw together,' and I heard
the shuck as he produced a 500-piece
fractured painting from beneath his cassock. 'One side
is Constable's "The Hay Wain", the other is beans.'
I imagined hundreds of man-sized baked beans
bottlenecking at church exits in a panicked stampede
trying to flee one of his interminable sermons,
his arms flailing as if he were a traffic policeman
his pulpit a blur of flame and bad static.