Life in the Fast Lane

Twice a week he beats cod
in a pan with a wooden spoon,
shatters its frozen symmetry
until white petals dance
with the packet peas, under
a crust of curried sludge.

This is the closest he comes
to real cooking, an alchemy
of tastes not found in books.
Once he was well fed,
her recipes on scraps of paper
until they disintegrated.

Now spaghetti and korma
emerge from his freezer,
labels checked for salt and fat.
Now there’s a microwave,
a tray, TV news. On cue
life comes in packages and leaves
in bins on Tuesday mornings
black and blue.