A Tin Of Sardines

A tin of Sardines. Mother by an assembly line putting tiny sardines into tins, a machine did the rest, a squirt of oil and a lid stamped on. Sardines side by side, in total darkness, wait to be eaten. But first of all the sardines had to be smoked, the smoker my mother’s lover, he visited her every Sunday afternoon, and I was sent out to find a place that sold ice cream, even when it rained. Rusting sardine cans, littering the wayside, don’t walk barefoot in the grass at summer time. Mother by an assembly line, putting sardines into tins, the smoker had another girlfriend now and I got no Sunday ice cream.