Spaghetti

So I’m twirling my spaghetti
only the twirling shows no
signs of stopping.

People at tables next to ours
laugh nervously and smile
because the entire plate of

spaghetti is on my fork now
and there’s no retreating.
Sanity holds no sway. I reach

for the parmesan cheese
because clearly the situation
calls for more food albeit

sprinkled food. It’s time. I
attempt to lift the weight
of Manhattan and its Burroughs.

I lean in, but this, this forkful
of snake in the grass takes a
nosedive for my white shirt.

I’m now the victim of a hit and run
by means of marinara and floppy
noodles.

Nearby tables pirouette in every
direction not mine. Burroughs
fall to the floor.

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