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Yesterday I received an Electric Carving Knife. It came in the post but there was no card
To say who had thought to buy me one. After all, I didn’t ask for it and I don’t need it As I don’t make roast dinners or bread
And I don’t cook because my mum does
Or my sister does if my mum is praying or on the Toilet waiting as she does sometimes for
My dad to come back from work or from the Pub if it’s Saturday and the Generation Game Has finished and there isn’t a good film on
Like a war film or a police film or anything with guns. Then she and I cuddle up.
I have seen lots of knives but not ones you
Plug in like an iron or a toaster to make them work Properly because I suppose they work anyway.
But you must have to be careful not to switch
Them on by mistake and cause some terrible mayhem Where the police all surround the house shouting And inside are people in a state and they are praying For Jesus to help or for someone to take the shot That’s lined up on his head. A crosshair they call it.
Extra precise like my electric carving knife. Eliminating the fat and the gristle, slicing through, So that only the good bits, the bits without fat
Or meanness, end up on your plate. Then you yummy it up.
At Christmas we go to my sister’s, the married one With babies, and her husband make drinks that taste Like grass with medicine mixed in but they make Dad all rowdy and he shouts over the dinner
So that I get sprayed with turkey bits and – oh yes, That’s where I see how handy an electric carving knife Would be if I gave mine to them, but I won’t because It’s still in its box in my room, just as it was when
It came out of the blue anonymously, like a prayer Or a balloon that somebody lost at a party that Got away from them because of a draft or they Were distracted by someone hurting them.
Then you want to help.
December 12, 2023