Pasta
Pasta
Great source of carbs.
Just what I need.
Everyday.
Pasta, chocolate milk, coconut water.
Make my body feel like a freelance river
able to run and dance through grassy plains
without so much as a pebble to slow me down.
Pasta
I have to eat as much as my team does.
I know we are a family, to the bus to the locker room
tied together by the stitches in our jerseys,
but it comes down to who ate the most,
who had the highest brand,
how long have they been addicted to this high of Italian nutrients.
Pasta
Everyday.
Sorry dude, can’t come to the pizza party,
gotta have some pasta.
Can’t eat popcorn with my family-Mom will you just make me pasta?
Have you seen how much the other team has been eating?
How can anyone expect me to eat a meal my father made with his own two hands?
Pasta
This may be crazy,
I hope it is,
but have you noticed what’s on their plates,
these heroes down from the epics of the stars,
casted out of ambition sharp enough to rip through its sheathe?
These people live in pasta,
all they know is pasta,
ask them to screw in a light bulb
and they’ll ask a monkey to do it.
And,
yet,
I’ll still read my children bedtime stories about their full plate of carbs.
Pasta
There’s pasta for people who wear out running shoes every month,
for warriors armed with shoulder pads and jocks straps,
statues without so much as a wrinkle on their granite skin,
masons with fingers eternally clamped to their absent chisel,
hunchbacked witches with keyboards as their wands.
These people are born by pasta
held captive willingly
unable to remember the taste of melty chocolate bar.
Pasta
I can’t wait to eat it again.
So many people peak before they are middle aged
but a candle afraid of running out of wax
is the candle that shines the dimmest.
I’ll eat it.
I’ll eat it because my ambition to be great
weighs more than my sense of taste,
than my desire to sleep,
than the confines of my vision.
Pasta
I also know
people either never eat pasta again,
relapse into a state of exhaustion
and PTSD into the war they had with themselves
or
they carry that pasta
everywhere they go.
You see a woman walking down the street wearing full camo
she ate pasta
you see a Napoleon hold his own in a class of Vikings
he ate pasta.
Each action they take, each sway to the side, each stutter-less speech
has the same force and willpower
it took to take another bite.
Pasta