I’m catching the back garden in a colander held up
to the kitchen window—catching, rather, the fierce green glare
that filters in. When I’ve had enough I turn, think
If I took a hacksaw and cut up the kitchen table
piece by piece, at what point exactly would it cease
to be a table? Which leg if any contains essence of table?
This kills time. Soon you will be home from a late shift
and I’ll have cooked us a vicious chilli, spitting
with onion, tomato, the red and yellow peppers, lentils, beans,
dashed with paprika, cumin… too much habanero.
Now they’re mingling, ready to have their tantrum
on our tongues. What’s left but to uncork a Côtes du Rhône
and rearrange the sitting room, in my head? There is no
TV, so all the furniture points to the furniture.
I slug down half then, one by one, tip up the chairs.