The speaker is a chef, and the poem splits their day into two halves: the strange, inventive work of the kitchen, and the plain comfort of going home. At work they "experiment with marrow bones" and have "a mad mouth," which suggests both tasting and talking in a feverish, playful way. Cooking here feels less like a job than a kind of wild improvisation.
The plates that follow are odd. One is for "the king," the other for "the clock." The king suggests power and ceremony, while the clock suggests time itself, something that can't really be fed. The lines hint, judging by the imagery, that the chef is serving both authority and the pressure of the hours, or perhaps just enjoying how absurd that sounds.
Then the mood softens. The speaker goes home to a simple supper, and their "sandwich hips sing." It's a funny, affectionate image that makes the body part of the joy. The poem feels light, quick, and content, celebrating both creative excess and ordinary satisfaction.