spaghetti, cabonara, Bolognese, pesto, mascarpone, no two dishes are the same. individual strands of the same cracked porcelain plate, twisting, turning, going about their lives, long or short or thick or thin so many starched lines, impossible to decipher from one another, and eachother
only the spaghetti on your own silver fork are noticed
In aid, I’ll give you guidance with my poem about sauce, pasta sauce.
In love with pasta sauce
I’m at a loss
The flavours mixing in
Not like that trash from tin
Freshly made
Not a cent paid
Tomatoes grown from my garden
I’m not one to let things be a burden
The beautiful consistency
Making friends and family want it desperately
But only t...... reply
