The Meal

You know the game’s up

When the house you live in

Begins to eat you.

The timbered roof

Is the roof of its mouth,

The pitted stone floor

Its rotted teeth,

The front and back doors

Its knife and fork

Cutting you into small pieces.

You look up from the plate

Towards the Belling

On the sideboard

Where your mother is standing

Inside a walker,

An unpaid bill

In her hand,

Supervising the meal.