I've bought no vegetables this week. Nor last.
The time the milk was good to drink is past.
The bread is green. The meat smells really odd.
Old carrots, cheese, some spinach with stale cod
are found within my fridge with leaky jars
containing little gherkins snatched from bars,
together with a tin of mouldy jam,
some pizza crumbs, old butter, and dry spam.
Yet in my cupboard there are fresh new books,
so juicy-ripe they're jumping to be read,
I stack them up and serve myself in bed
-- each time I pause I marvel at the cooks.
Quite soon I'll starve from lack of food, I'm sure,
but craving for fresh insights has no cure.