tinned soup
Sunday nights long ago
when mum had passed out
would make my own tea
canned soup & toast soldiers
heat soup in pan on stove
lightly toast bread buttergold
tomato was my favourite
diluted with a little milk
soldiers dunked in the mug
till soggy & exquisitely moosh
tonight straight from the tin
cold & without buttered toast
— i’m struggling to recall its appeal
I had to google “toast soldiers”, I had never heard that before but I love the image it adds to the poem. This is well executed, this prompt brought out a lot of poems that feel both warm & cold.