Robert Verdon, #33, The Art of Consumption in Canberra

noodles slop freely over the side of a bowl

we eat again, and there is storm after storm

warning after warning, smug adverts sputtering about

diabetes and heart attacks and Kinder Surprise, spruiking patent quackery

when not guzzling, cooking, delicious fat and flour

hour by hour, as capitalism elsewhere digs its own grave with its teeth

as we stir black bean sauce or turmeric through loesses of rice

in a fug of peanut oil as the traffic drizzles by

— but ours is a snug little kitchen in a rented unit near town

an oral town, in its 30s

or a big kitchen in a suburban tree-choked backwater, unconnected

to the great world out there, and no one knows what we eat

and no one cares, we are free free free free free

except at work, but the day goes by, to be replaced by domestic blissing out

and food and sex and food

and food, restaurants on every corner

and no one ever bothers to ask

why

and when it shall end

and is there anything we can make,

apart from dinner?