Singleton

Alone, he wouldn’t think to bake a Camembert for lunch 
Nor serve it with some olives, to be fair 
His normal repertoire consists of tins, and cheese, and egg
Accompanied by anything that’s there

His staples would be bread, defrosted singly, slice by slice 
And thinly spread with low fat margarine 
While she’d have lavished butter on a crusty warm baguette
And spoiled him with some roasted aubergine

He hadn’t any time now for those fancy latte drinks 
All foamy, hot, and flavouring the air
His decaf served him nicely, though he can’t recall the taste
But mealtimes were no longer an affair

He pinched his narrow waistline with a grimace and a grin
Deciding he was healthier inside
But every now and then his gaze was wistful, sometimes grim 
As taste buds sought the pleasures she’d supplied

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