Tomorrow, in the Loo

More than a bit suspiciously we ventured on
a little shopping spree today to purchase produce –
not the sort of food we’re used to eating:
fresh, forbidding yellow and red peppers, celery
and broccoli – and Brussels’ sprouts – well, yes,
the last we’d managed to poeticize not long ago,

but with a touch too much bravado to be trusted:
rusty is the best that we could call our vegetable
cooking skills – too many ills and spills are
likely when we get our hands and colanders
and pans and spatulas and scoops and knives
and forks and spoons into the mystic runes

of “growing things”: and yet the idea of the fitness
of amassing plants supplants the worst of our
besetting woes – some budding atavistic
yearning for a taste of Spring – perhaps a hunger
for its contrast that the thought of Winter
and its snowing brings: at any rate we’ve got

a pile of cellulose, B-vitamins, and heaven knows
whatever else is slotted through this diet to
engorge our unsuspecting gorges and we’ll let
you know the outcome when we do. Though we
can probably predict already that we’ll spend
a longer time than usual, tomorrow, in the loo.



.