sunday night spaghetti

4/30/06

twisting the pen
round in round in rolls
makes the time before bed less a chore;
to sort the mess from a brimming pot,
before a night spent chasing the stock

…where minutes pass by like lives

and as my fingers whirl
thoughts wet and locked and stacked too tall
settle down and away
like spaghetti captured by a sink from a colander heap:

the first an oily noodle of a dream, of little right smiles like stars behind clouds
and another of a candle lit by two
and the last, even funny in the cold dark of night
of home