nearly rubbish, no doubt |
I’ve dropped this onion on the floor twice
already.
The second time half of it slid under the
stove, deep amongst the cobwebs and god knows what besides.
I can wash it off.
And it’s not like I’m going to share this
meal with anyone.
No one’s going to drop in.
Or stumble past.
Or come home, tonight.
I’m not sure why I am bothering, I could
just as easily eat ice cream and drink beer.
There’s a bottle of one and a tub of the
other in the fridge.
And I probably will.
But for now, I’m cooking - the onion; the garlic
and the aubergine.
It will become a ratatouille.
Rattling about in this empty place.
Of cobwebs.
I could clean them.
I can let them grow.
All the same.
I could let go.
I can hang on.
No difference.
I know what you will say; she’ll be back.
But you don’t really know that do you?
It’s hope.
It’s despair.
Much the same.
ab/67
3 comments:
I sympathise, mon semblable, mon frere...
musn't crumble!
To Itchycoo Park - that's where I'll be...
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