Tuesday, June 7, 2011
When the sauce is juicy and not too red, it’s just right.
I slurp noodles off your cold Corning Ware until
it’s like we’re in your old kitchen with the round fridge
with its old lettuce smell and tiny tubs of Promise.
When the spaghetti is gone, I sigh because I miss you.
my own children running about with hair like so many noodles.
I chose to be happy, because I sense the Parmesan shakes
with no sign of running out.
Labels: alzheimer's poetry