Like an Animal

Like an Animal.

I hear it like the sea

from four or five streets away

faint, soft

like a cuddly toy

but when I sit outside

in the car port

where the barbecue is

it smashes into me

like an olfactory wave

a phantosmia of

chops, Frenched lamb cutlets

sizzling on the grill

and me, grabbing them by the hands

ripping into them

tearing the meat off like an animal —

& I know then

my appetite is back.

Even the Zucchini Cake

Even the Zucchini Cake.

Even the zucchini cake

didn’t lift him;

all our thoughts, poems, stories

we thought

so scintillating,

he mused:

second hand, dead wood,

old hat

stodgy as a stale

haiku

A Cheesy Death

I am watching a man dying on a jet plane

and I am contemplating eating another slice

of cheesecake.

I don’t know yet if the man dies

from clogged arteries, but he looks well fed

up there in real life and is a senior like me.

Now they rip off his shirt and work on his chest

pale and spotted as this cheesecake

I am lifting to my lips as Logan Roy

is pronounced dead.

Fork

Fork.

There’s something special about a small wooden fork.

Small, slender, artisanal.

Things just taste better with them.

Apple and cinnamon muffins, for one.

Strawberry shortcake.

And this explosion of a pavlova my daughter made,

the slice I’ve just eaten,

mango and whipped yoghurt

which gave this poem its prod.

Morning Prayer

Thank you, Lord

for teeth

to rip into

this egg and bacon muffin

for taste buds

to savour it

& for the senior’s coffee

To wash it down

to fuel me up

for the morning ahead

Travel Lightly

Travel lightly, Matt said during a session of morning meditation

and though I knew what he meant — shedding one’s addictions,

regrets, anger, all the pettiness that weighs us down,

I couldn’t help but applying it to food, how it’s easier to move

with grace and agility with less weight, foregoing that plate of chips,

that second glass of wine with steak and even a smaller portion

of eye fillet, but surely a slice of that yummy Orange Baby Cake

after gym wouldn’t hurt

My Bad-Ass Phone Call

 
Maybe I shouldn’t have made it but

the fish was under-cooked.

That apprentice! D said. I’ll haul him

over the coals.

have his guts for garters.

He’s overstepped the mark this time.

Don’t go too hard on him, I say.

He has a good heart.

A good heart doesn’t cut it in this

business, he said,

I’ll flay him alive.

It won’t happen again.

The next lot is on me.

And he hung up.

I know he was playing it up a bit.

Still, it would be good to see Jarrod

at the grill next week

in one piece.
 
 
 

Sultanas

You are the gin

in gin ‘n’ tonic,

the rum

in

bundy and coke;

the abracadabra that transforms,

the fruity little pellets

that add

zest and zing

to oats

that put the sing

in snap, crackle, ‘n’ pop,

feisty little metaphors

for writing

that needs to lift its lid

let out its Id

roll like a dog

in

the muck and merriment

of language.

Hosannas to sultanas.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

He Walks Like a Jetty

His legs, protruding from baggy shorts,

are thick as pylons.

He walks like a jetty would wade

through water.

He works long hours in a candy store

hunched over his tiny laptop.

Not many customers come in.

Is candy on the nose?

*pic courtesy of Pinterest

Horoscope for Cats

 
I have been advised to make a list
of what needs ‘to be tweaked a little or altered a lot’.
My soul mate’s cat who shares my horoscope
has been similarly advised.
Come on, I say, give the scratching post a rest.
We have work to do.
We have to make a list.
At first she seems a little indifferent
but after a time she gets into
the spirit of the thing.
I have a peak over her shoulder
and can’t help
but notice most are about food,
a sort of bucket list of what she’d like
to be fed and how often.
Mine’s a little more modest, how I could be
less demanding towards my love, more appreciative but on reflection
much of my list seems to be about food as well.
It seems we share
more than just a horoscope.