Cooking

I admire the nimble fingers of my wife that work
On frozen uncut vegetables and on spices pulses
And cereals stacked away for innumerable tomorrows,
To change them in minutes into an admirable symphony
Of steaming aromatic delicacies. I have often stumbled
On these unwilling musicians but they don’t ever
Sing for me. I begin with noodles and end up in soup.
Breads become rusks and often at the dreaded time of eating
What I cooked, I make up foolish faces of false delight and
Bury my disappointment. I can do the dishes, clean the mess,
But don’t let me cook. It needs courage to eat my dishes and
I am not so brave.