Hey Pesto!

crushing garlic on my brand new
fairly traded organic bamboo chopping board
the pungent aroma fills the air
sticky juice oozes from plump cloves
thin papery outer layers stick to my fingers
always a slightly laborious process
prepping garlic but

in the background soothing New Age sounds
a reflection of peasant life in Tibet or Peru
or somewhere cloaked in colourful robes
the tick of the retro rail station clock
like a heartbeat metronome
meditating on the moment
music to crush garlic by

music to watch birds fly
a late summer bee buzzes past the window
reminds me of those dreadful drone things
they fly them for practice over our house
not like the winged visitors gorging
on sunflowers and peanuts
hung from the ancient apple tree

they ask for nothing
take only my appreciation in return
take another bulb of garlic from the pot
the terracotta pot gifted me by Monica
Portuguese and oh so very good looking
she was also Catholic and always off-limits
despite those dark eyes

they were too deep for me
swallowed me whole every time she looked my way
she gave what she thought was good advice
but not what I ever wanted to hear
never the words that would invite me
to her bedroom door
into her bed

into her arms
and now when I crush garlic
I think of Monica and what became of her
I scoop it into the food processor
add pine nuts and parmesan
basil and the oil from extra virgins
press thumb on brushed steel button

and gaze out the window
a sparrow hits the glass and falls to the ground
the Buddhist monks and llama farmers
drowned out by the machine’s whizz and whir
I watch the sparrow stagger about the patio
like an old drunk recovering his composure
lessons learnt in flight dynamics

window collision avoidance
pesto making with crushed garlic
drones that crash into hillsides
Portuguese Monica and what became of her
I dip my finger into the flavourful sauce
smile at my reflection
and taste the perfection of now