I’m making Caesar salad
with Kurt Cobain. We’re sharing a joint
and I’m spilling the dressing, neither of us
stressing about how long we’ve got
to live, or if we did it all in time.

While the dressing settles in the kitchen tiles
we’re laughing and talking about
how awful “maybe” sounds in song
or how I wish I could say “poetical”
without someone saying it was wrong.

We’ll gladly break our backs
under the weight of a single word.
Kurt’s singing ad-lib into the open fridge.
‘Trying my hardest to make
a damn good Caesar salad’, he sings

but sometimes the croutons are burnt
and the lettuce is wilted
and the dressing’s drying on the floor
and everyone’s complaining
because there’s no chicken.