for Will
I get the cheese-grater out of its hiding place
and use it to grate the banana
onto my plate of spaghetti bolognaise.
Why would anyone do such a stupid thing?
I ask myself
(rather awkwardly, as it happens).
But I am creating a work of art:
the edible and the edible, unpredictably combined
to make the inedible.
Art made, I hurl the uncomfortable bowl
against the wall
at the far end of the early morning kitchen,
because all art is temporary, like this poem,
which came from nowhere
and goes nowhere.
There is a deep satisfaction
in clearing up the meses
one fashions in this odd life,
and, like life,
all traces of my futile endeavour
will soon be beautifully absent.
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