Had I but the right cutlery, I could cut it

but in this age of convenience and terror I

am not to be trusted. I’ve a piece of plastic

I must sharpen with my mind, that presently

tears, no wipes, the hang-dog expression

from the face of our single serve of lasagne.

This is not the end or rather the end as I’d

imagined it, this monochromatic restaurant

with its listless salads and half arsed pasta

bakes, its muzak and families dull as tines

on my fork. Craft taxi and dock, no this is

not the end, it is ends – and interminably so.

This poem wants to do so much, the cutlery

apposite: I am trying to lift love, I am trying.