A dusty airport blares a creaking tannoy.
Tube lights make reflections in watery coffee.
I sit on metal seats with holes in them
and wonder what purpose the holes have.
I play with poorly-stuffed ravioli with my fork
and turn and tell the man next to me
that it is the worst thing I have ever eaten.
He really should not care. But he smiles
and says with a hint of a smirk that machines
do not always get it right. It is not the ravioli’s fault
that sometimes there is too much swollen inside
and it all bursts out and scalds the eater;
or that it takes a knack to season properly
and few amateurs know the secret of biscotti;
or that sometimes there is just too little to begin with
barely enough to satisfy the most eager gourmands.
I say, oh. I never thought about it like that.