Spaghetti

Written by: Allison Ballard

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