Spaghetti
A click, click
and the burner lights
tonight
I am not going anywhere
but the end of the hall where
the broken fluorescent light
can help me cook and write
A red frothy sauce bursts, hot steam
rising up, mist over
a scratched tin pot
a dirty burner hissing, 17 floors
up in the tower with the whistling windows
And a microwave reading 6:58…
But the clock could be slow
and so could this grey day
As though it sarcastically is appealing
to my melancholy stomach
which absentmindedly turns in sync with
the wooden spoon stirring
the steam into submission
I now how to cook a couple of things
and I know a couple of songs very well
I also can cook up a couple of songs
when called upon
And I do
more often than I ought…
Life
is sort of like the deep red pot
which I try to keep from burning
I try to brown each side of my heart
to keep it from really hurting
But I usually cannot
and today it’s hot
and it’s a bit hard not
to turn the stove off
and bring myself to walk,
away...
I’m just reminiscing
and mixing in basil leaves
like other things, I try to convince myself
that this won’t be forever
That maybe one day, some venture
won’t lead to the red hot mess
and the seething in my chest
that always results from my best try
to love …
But a couple of leaves can’t do the trick
and nor can happy thoughts
convey, on a grey day in torre
that things will ever go my way
No, I just pray not to think
as I wash the dishes in the sink
which drains the waste of my ambition
down and out, never to be seen
I guess that’s just
how it has to be
Life may not be for me
when I making
Emotional spaghetti
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