I eat strange dinners – if I can call them that.
One moment it is chapati – dry and hard,
with boiled egg, mango and avocado,
and, with a sneaky sense of bravado,
wash all down with tickled red wine
Another moment, when I decide to dine,
it is carrot, banana and hesitant yogurt
downed with soothing tea – how awkward!
At other times, it is calm curled-up croissant
with tangerine, tea and apple– quite pleasant!
But the dish I would really like to eat is not so chic:
It’s to chew and swallow mysterious thoughts like a mystic.
I will not use my teeth; no, the tongue is a better tool
for it allows the taste to last longer; a cure for my drool.
I would wash this down with sips of my lungs
but only if anger assaults me in waves of hunger pangs.
Else, I prefer to bath my dinner in pulses of my heart.
Dinner eaten this way obviates the need for dessert.
And it matters not if the thoughts are ripe or raw;
the taste will be good and true – ’cause my mum said so.
