poem about pasta

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