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pasta unspoken

Goodbye fell off the turnstile
And landed on the floor
To be Trampled into the concrete
To be Squished out like dough
With stiletto divets

waffle like

It almost looked appetizing
The product of a hundred busy chefs
On their way to
Empty silences and humming fans
In placid houses
Houses that feel like empty pasta boxes
Just as neat
Just as sad
Sad sad chefs
Man chef
Women chefs
Dreaming of friendly pasta
Wishing for brittle H’s
Over rounded e’s
Lots of long slender ll’s
And playful o’s
All of them ready to get fat and slick
In the hot speak bubbles
Radiating from a boiling conversation
Miles from the place where goodbye lays
Peppered with ashes and dirty snow

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About wherearetheheros

just someone my mother might know

3 responses »

  1. Another amazing poem. You never cease to amaze me. I even watched a few minutes of Extreme Chef tonight. But you . . .you wrote! Thank you!

    Reply
    • This has been an extreme week for me.
      Driving 5 kids from the hood to Bible School and teaching 5th and 6th grade boys.
      One of them said they would “pimp slap” me and even worse
      one called me an old man . ha ha
      What a hoot though , I love Bible School.
      thanks for reading my silly pasta foolishness.

      Reply
      • Oh man . . .I loved hearing about your extreme week. 🙂 Laughing about the old man comment. phew . . .harsh words. It reminds me of one of the little girls in a Wednesday night class I helped in looking at my hands and saying they look r-e-a-l-l-y o-l-d . haha! She was right!
        God bless you!

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