Tonight's Poet Corner: Sonnet Solstice #359
The Noodles
by Belinda Roddie
The noodles in the pot are getting cold,
the marinara congealing, the starch
unappealing as it sits in my bowl.
I thought that pasta night would be the start
of something delicious, and yet, I have
no appetite for this concoction. Now,
I'm left with food to waste, and I would laugh
if I could feed it to a dog or cow
or cat or llama, of which I have none.
I'm hungry, but I can't afford to buy
anything else, and it wouldn't be fun
to beg for my neighbors' extra fruit pie,
which sounds amazing, by the way. Alas,
this sad mess of carbs will just have to pass.
by Belinda Roddie
The noodles in the pot are getting cold,
the marinara congealing, the starch
unappealing as it sits in my bowl.
I thought that pasta night would be the start
of something delicious, and yet, I have
no appetite for this concoction. Now,
I'm left with food to waste, and I would laugh
if I could feed it to a dog or cow
or cat or llama, of which I have none.
I'm hungry, but I can't afford to buy
anything else, and it wouldn't be fun
to beg for my neighbors' extra fruit pie,
which sounds amazing, by the way. Alas,
this sad mess of carbs will just have to pass.
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