When I eat spaghetti I swirl my cool metal fork into that mess of red, I think of my best friend.

He’d spend hours on his knees, hands in the mud,

dripping sweat. He’d bring his goods into

the kitchen, bent over the steamy pot of tomatoes.

Good and soft now, slide his hands over the
rubbery exterior, giving way to the firm but moist inside.

I’d come home to see his hands dripping,
slowly pulverizing those bodies to a pulp. Now
those bodies are steaming away, like incense over
a casket, souls being raised to heaven.
He’d serve this over limp spaghetti noodles
alongside thick garlic bread.
The best part were those noodles. I’d twirl
my cold metal fork in them and slurp up every last bit; the fork would slide out so cleanly it’d look new.
It was quite the sensation: though always messy,
I’d devour every last bit - feel the
warm concoction slide so easily down.
Now overwhelmed by the satisfaction, I’d
get a glass of water. Gulping down every last bit,
I’m looking at the mirror at us, now too tired
to do anything but lie down
and feel the chill of late September
while we listen to crickets lull us to rest.