I heard those tiny pasta stars
have been discontinued:
obsolete. I do remember
tricky semolina bits, pieces
sticking to chubby hands
brought fistfuls at a time.
(Screw spoons, forget forks!)
They spoke in toddler tongues,
squirrely cheeks, eyes on the bowl
and cast also in outspread wonder,
scooped up starchiness, intrigue
sifted, sticky, some crusting quick.
After, the kitchen cleanup awaited,
sink strainer nesting all the excess.
And the bathtub too, a trail of it,
all of it, littering barefoot arches
hidey holes in hairlines, secured
atop scalps and stiffened curls.
Even somehow they made it
into the crack of a backside.
How?! Some bitsy Barilla gnome
circling, akin to the tooth fairy,
aimed at each conceivable crevice?
So, I exaggerate, but I am the one
who wrestled them, cloth in hand
till the caught pieces fell loose,
the one who poured water again
and again over their heads like
John in the flinty River Jordan,
who scrubbed them clean,
pastinaless, who dried them,
powdered and lotioned them,
held them close, read verses
until, sated, each fell asleep
beneath their own special star.
No comments:
Post a Comment