As a divorcé, my son and I have to be our own chefs
during Modi’s lockdown
since we’re not allowed to go out of our apartment.
Scrambled in the mornings,
sunny side up in the afternoons,
an omelet with mushrooms at nights.
My ex would have taken pity on me
if she could have seen me hunched over the stove.
It’s a pity I wasn’t taught cooking
when I was a kid.
Every day, my son pushes his plate away
and we have a push-of- war
until he stops moving it
and forks the fluffy yellow pieces into his mouth.
I pretend I’ve never tasted anything so good
and point to his plate with my fork to make him finish.
I know I’ll never eat another egg
after the pandemic is over,
if I survive.
2 Responses
Hi Tara, The imagery of the struggle of a single parent, more so of a man who has never mastered cooking is well laid out. As one reads the poem, the reader is given a treat of well meshed play of words, describing the “fate” of the eggs in the hands of a man who has never before cooked anything. The highlight of the poem is your stretch of imagination as a poet, and I applaud you for that. It must be a family trait. Keep up the writings.
Hi Ram: As a writer, it’s nice to hear that I have good imagination. Thanks for all the comments.