"Sad-sghetti" | A surreal poem

How much do you love pasta?

For me it's minimal.

Hairy balled bland, dreams die as sticky boiled pasta - overcooked, underserved.

Black olive bitterness singes the tongue,

cotton blooms of mold live on rough red pepper skin too sour to succor,

browning unnaturally withered onions which produce lip quivering tears,

pasty, gluey, bloodied sauce swallows you with week-old cheesy fumes, 

clogging clumped thorny beads down your throat.

That's when it hits you: a sloppy sadness so bowel stiffening you can't sit up.

What's plated dictates your intense gloom,

for nourished happiness demands time to bake, rising imperceptible, before crisping then filling space with a homely aroma.

Patience! Patience!

Sadness settles as oiled grease hidden below a leaping garlic oreganoed glow.

In the end, a more satisfying dish.