Nigel Lawrence

The Fat Suburb

You know you've arrived
when you see the pavement edges
glowing fresh with butter gold paint,
those elaborate murals on gable ends:
Flab talks, thin walks,
and next door the boarded up and burnt out
where neighbours had a knife edge choice held clean
beneath their unjowelled chins: Feed up or ship out.

In the evening pub doors gape with legends:
No bones in this bar. Chubby chasers - check out.
Instead there are enamel baths of Guinness,
Twiglets like telegraph poles,
family bags of Walkers the size of people carriers.
And back at home
mothers prepare closing time feasts,
polishing chip pans
until they gleam like the sheen of melted lard