Peel the seal, take that first whiff
of words steaming forth, a well-deserved
meal heaped on a mess tin in some
unnamed jungle, palate savouring
the story to come. If only one could
devour a book in five minutes
slurping up each subplot
the meat of character, long strands
of carefully constructed words
unraveling in warm soup, designed
for instant gratification. Instead,
books are this slow-cooked meal,
made over months,
sometimes years; shelved for sale
with no obvious recipe, no expiry date.
About: This poem is an ekphrastic response to a convenience store that I spotted somewhere in Braddell. I liked how they had juxtaposed a shelf of second-hand books next to a row of instant noodles with a rather unconventional flavour.