During the Diet
by
Robert Currie

On boring evenings in the long hours before bed
I dream of the Toblerone bar that lies in the freezer

hidden at the back of the shelf behind the bag
of frozen peas where no one can see it.

Sometimes I swear I hear its low voice murmuring,
Mmm, chocolate, mmm, so good, and just for you.

Its cardboard container touched with frost, it shivers
and moans and longs for release. If the plastic bag

that holds the peas were by chance to spring a leak,  
that bar would boot pea after pea out of the bag

until at last there was room to make a break for freedom.
Then it would wait in wild anticipation for the freezer door

to open, and someone searching for a TV dinner
would spot it, a siren, slim and seductive, then

he’d reach in and bear it out, slide off the cardboard coat
and peel away its silver gown, finger its sleek figure,  

its delicious curves, ah yes, take me, please,
take me now, mouth open for the savory kiss.

Ah, but the bag that contains the peas
is impregnable, the door of the freezer

closed, the light off, the Toblerone bar
lost in darkness.  Invisible to searching eyes.

Except that I know exactly where it lies.


© by Robert Currie.
Used with the author's permission.