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You'll be lamenting the
rising price of lentils,
and I’ll be polishing
the rice by hand.
There will be steam rising
to cloud the air from the
yellow pot on the stove,
and there will be no
time for tossed salad.
Relationships will fall
apart over a missing
salt cellar,
and the sky will be as
dark and uncertain as
early experiments in
the moving image.
On Wednesday, eighty
percent of dry land will
slip under the ocean,
and our dinner parties
will be aborted with
haste and irritation.
You'll be vegan, and I'll eat
my weight in chocolate.
There will be no progress
found in porridge-eating,
and we only find
disappointment in
undercooked kamut.
By the weekend, we will be
discovering corn again.