Spa-Peggy and Meatballs

Spa-Peggy and Meatballs (Mom Stuff)

Sounds kind of like a Thursday thing,
but lately noodles been limpin’ towards the weekend…
Al dente smiles around the dinner table
affirm the unsung religion of pasta in the West-
its luxury is not bound to legacy,
but to the tradition of earth to grain to mother to mouth:
a shimmering chain (or recipe if you’re fond of stirring)
almost invisible around the neck of commercialism
(consumer realism, compliant dinnerism,
chew and swallow, etc.) but apparent in the cycle
of the seasons and in the stitching of children
inside the wombs of women who chew and swallow.

I’d like to say that I’ve never been to Italy,
but since I can’t decide myself and no commercial
can truly tell me if Italy is a country or a spirit
or a notion or some mélange of those things,
that very simple desire is thwarted, as it will be
until that television or your words or some mélange
that our palates can agree upon will stop
confusing classification with specificity…

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