It was a dark and stormy day,
Cooking tea in the usual way,
This was my mother long ago,
"Don't touch the pressure cooker, no!"
Subtly, she left the scene,
Forgot the cooker, its head of steam,
Bang! Did that curry explode,
Mum's response, implode!
"Why didn't you check that stove?"
"You told me not to touch it, no!"
All I can say on this, fifty years later,
Don't use pressure to cook my curry or taters!

Waiting
-I seem to be doing lots of that-
I’d swear there’s smoke trapped under my lungs
My gut’s caught on fire
Consumes me
Red hot coal,
Two bags of air ousted
By toxic smoke building up,
Fragrant like tobacco
Wild like wood.
I often dream about
Driving a knife into my stomach
Just a pop and an excess of smoke
filling the room
No blood at all.
I’ll open the windows
Turn off the fire alarm.
I’ll leave the wound open.
A gaping, smoking wound is more dignified
Than screaming in the flames.