by jdavidcharles

Oh, empty package of dollar
penne noodles tossed aside to trash,

what small taste of Italy you have
in your bright packaging

and 7-8 minute cooking time.
Your brother, Pomodoro sauce,

beside you glistening in the afternoon
glare of summer, specked

with small crusts of aging
parsley and fennel, in streaks

of browning tomato plum.
I have slowly and weekly hollowed

you by large heaps in the microwave
topped with bagged Romano,

Reggiano, Parmesan;
let you grow cold

while I fed on chocolate chip
cookies or ice cream even;

forgetting how much like
time or consciousness you are,

imperturbable in re-heating
again and again on Sunday afternoon,

sustained in your every moment
more miraculous than a thousand

creations, but mostly your uncanny
habit of staining each white shirt

I own right on through with
your boiling crimson.