It was in the way he got off his chair

inside the café, the wind racing up

through the large alleyway

knocking the sign back and forth, the advert

for the all day breakfast, a small comedy

chicken with a wide brimmed Stetson,

the Midland’s answer to Foghorn Leghorn

holding a spatula, its feathers slightly

roasting away

and a pig with a creepy smile

and one trotter

out of proportion to the rest of the body

and wearing a flashy apron, emblazoned

with the words Francis’ Café,

food like your mum used to make;

it was as my son gave me a hug and wiped back

a late teenager tear,

that I thought

I don’t remember the last time this happened

and when did my mum

ever need trotters and feathers

to make

bacon and eggs.