WHAT’S FOR DINNER?

I wonder what’s on the TV tonight
and what’s for dinner? Yes, I live alone.
I’ve been tidying my room all day but
have not yet hit bedrock. Disappointment
comes up with the sun and stays.
You get used to everything in the end,
whatever the distortion. Ichabod drops in
for a bit of a chat; he’s wearing
an exotic robe dating from ancient times.
We go out in my car (a Hyundai)
and drive around for a bit and drop in to
Starbucks then it’s back home to study
but study is boring and wine is, as we speak,
being pumped into the vast vats I just had
installed in the cellar, red in the red vat,
white in the white vat, because that’s how
smart I am. Plonk’n’SploshTM had an offer on
and it was too good to turn down. After
a gallon or so of tolerable red I deteriorate
into the furniture, and the elephants assemble
in the courtyard, and the water diviners
insist upon emphasizing the divine, and
the scriptures begin to loom large while
clouds assemble for an important announcement.
But I find it difficult to be interested
in anything cerebral. Footprints are where
my heart used to be and unquestionably
how I perform depends upon usage, not only
being what I am not but also what I am
and not really worrying about anyone else.
It’s Thursday, so jelly’s on the dinner menu.
Friday is seafood. Weekends I go hunting.

Martin Stannard