When Company Comes Over for Dinner…


Starch encircles the inside of the saucepan.
Minutes before
Boiling ($1.00) noodles (overstocked, on sale) occupied the basin’s abyss.
As I reach into the sink
For a fork,
The three pronged metal penetrates my flesh.
I pretend the middle indentation
Is my Third Eye-glancing through tunnel vision
At a peephole convalescent.

Dinner is never a reclusive experience.

What I choose to acknowledge in realism
Becomes my company.

The trains jiggle across the tracks
Like pizza boxes shaken,
Full of crust,
The American Children
Didn’t want to eat.

Dinner is never a reclusive experience.

My doors are made of wood.
When I squint
The knots in the wood
Squish into faces, that propose questions
About my cooking. They’re so charming.
I press my fingers
Onto my sternum-mumble a laugh.
Like a flamboyant starlet.

“Oh stop!” I say. “You’re making me blush!”

I pour red sauce over the noodles,
Style the casserole
Into Biblical shapes. I discuss to the faces
What it means to be a Demigod
To $1.00 noodles.

“Taste my body! My blood!” I say. “But don’t develop a habit
That leads to addiction.”

After dinner
I explain
That much like the Sabbath
My faith comes in portions-
Gifted to those
That don’t care about poetry & sex.

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