Canto XII

I’m cooking curry as you journey home.
The sharpened knife glides through the cartilage
as you dream of lopping off the vacant domes

of fellow commuters—inwardly you rage,
as they ah-choo into the fetid air
or blast their crap tunes to the whole carriage.

On gentle heat, the pot's aroma flares
into a musk of cumin and chilli.
You’ve reached Victoria, you’re nearly there

until your joined in your seat by a smelly,
over perfumed, power dressing blonde,
enough to stir your restless, pregnant belly.

You’d have no qualms making a little pond
of vomit in the divot of her skirt.
You’re both women, I’m sure she’ll understand.

In goes the chicken, sauce spatters my shirt—
poetic frenzy of the stay home chef,
the walls recall the worst of Pollock’s art.

And by the time you get in all that’s left
is to scoop in yoghurt, add a twist of lime
and serve before you’ve time to catch your breath.

The washing up can wait. It’s glutton time.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 01, 2012 @ 00:29:51

    Wicked…I too cook curry for my lover; big bowlfuls, by the fire, with nan bread and basmati rice washed down with beer..the ultimate soul food.

    Reply

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