Sunday, Bloody Sunday

I am looking for a dozen or
so depraved artichokes so 
I can spice up my dinner, but 
all I can find are a few celibate
onions in the bottom of the
pantry that are well passed
their best-before date.
                                       I ring
the local equivalent of Uber
Eats to order something else
for dinner, only to be told
that the Department of Trans-
port is having a crackdown
on the permissible speed of 
e-bikes & it will be an hour 
& a half before they can get 
something to me.
                               I head out
to the garden to see what's
there, but the fruit bats have
laid claim to the fruit trees, &
the snails & slugs & any other
ground-hugging being have
taken over the garden.
                                         I go
inside, take out the Larousse 
Gastronomique. Read it for a
while, then go to bed, hungry.