Man was made to warm things up (Martin Cruz Smith)
Of simple things I sing,
fresh air, a quickening breeze,
a seagull’s light grey wing,
the far voice of the seas . . .
such dreams will drift and swing
down with me to the grave . . .
with this grave-offering.
Tins and a microwave.
Tins and their opening
should be a thing of ease:
but the damned pull-up ring
snaps off; nor can I seize
the lid with my whing-ding
tin-opener, as I crave . . .
it’s war. Still they’re my thing,
tins and a microwave.
Long bouts of counselling,
I’ve had enough of these,
enough of suffering
advice and recipes.
For me no apron-string,
no stove-rags of a slave,
but the emblems of a king.
Tins and a microwave.
Reader, what dodge can bring –
admit it now, be brave –
the answer to everything?
Tins and a microwave.
