In the hierarchy of buffets, spaghetti is the king
no matter what competing dishes they may bring
to grace the laden, groaning boards: rich soups and shrimp and cheeses.
They advocate for salads, but somehow no Caesar pleases
half as much as pasta, well-laden with rich sauce:
ground beef, basil and parmesan, tinged with just a toss
of fennel and oregano. It simply has no peer.
We gobble it with cabernet, chianti or a beer.
We leave the smorgasbord serene, replete and full and sated.
Our emptiness has been fulfilled, our appetites abated.
No hunger pangs outlast thin noodles topped with smashed tomatoes.
Spaghetti beats out hamburgers and crisp French fried potatoes.
It beats out cured Virginia ham. It beats filet mignon.
It beats twice-baked potatoes and things put thereupon.
I’m sorely tempted by ice cream and pastries, cookies, tarts,
but such things aren’t exclusive of main courses that are starts.
A plate piled with spaghetti deserves a proper ending.
Just plan when loading up your plate. Dessert is also pending!
Your sardonic humor and your endless cynicism has, in truth, created such a deep and boundless schism that I can let it slide no more. I simply can’t deflect the fact that you are losing all our friends’ respect. I’ve finally had enough and so you’ll see my face no more. You’ll have one more brunt for your jokes as I walk out the door. I take this way to say ta-ta and bid my fond adieu. Perhaps this way you’ll finally see the final joke’s on you.
photo by Donald Giannatti on Unsplash, with permission
Her endless tries to civilize her wild Wyoming grin and the crooked chipped-off tooth that resided within did nothing to dispel its authentic cowgirl charm or its endless talent in working to disarm any reticent cowboy who thought he would resist it then ended up admitting that he wished that he had kissed it. So when at last those lips were kissed, alas it was no drover, but instead a city boy who won our wild girl over.
And, because they took no chance in winning her affection,
it was in fact the cowboys at fault for her defection.
The grass is always greener in another town or state.
Perhaps being a newbie she can start with a clean slate.
She’ll improve her deportment and for sure she will begin
to dress much more sedately. She’ll be neat as a pin.
She’ll insure her own wellbeing by befriending saner folk.
No more life of the party. No more a standing joke.
The other times she pulled up stakes were only practice for
this time, when she swore to them, before she slammed the door,
that she’d make something of herself. They should just wait and see.
This time she’d fall much farther from the family tree.
We hope that she is right and that she doesn’t change her mind
And ask along the self she keeps trying to leave behind.
A fleeting shadow on the wall, what do you make of that? Another and another joins this swirling mass of bat. Fortuitous destruction, they swarm across the lake. What an impressive undulating constant stream they make. They go to eat mosquitos in the farther fields they roam, leaving only guano here closer to their home. The wellbeing they foster, I fear is far afield. Here at home there’s not a single benefit they yield. They sleep by day then hurry off on nightly winged weavings, leaving me, with broom and scrub brush, dealing with their leavings.
When it comes to authority, Karma takes the cake. What starts out as a landslide ends up as a quake. She is no polite lady. She dishes and she serves what you’ve done in one life as the coming life’s hors d’ oeuvres. So be careful of schemes you cook up, for though there is no beating them, chances are that in the next life you may well be eating them.
Although the moon is obstinate, They’re waking up the sun. It’s time to fold your dreams away, to shake out the day’s fun. When adventure’s inconspicuous, still you can try to find it. Time is always ticking but you can’t forget to wind it. Knit your future to your dreams and life will be your plum. When life can be so wonderful, why spend it being glum?