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.

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