Pasta comes in all shapes and sizes,
But spaghetti is always
A long stretch of flour, that unlike
A straw fails to keep the shape.
Penne makes diagonals, while Raviolli is stuffed.
And yet nothing beats the farfalle
The little butterflies that creep through the throat
To make a bout of hunger disappear.
Pasta is how my wife like’s her dinner,
And in this part of the world, where rice is royalty, you find
The rare pasta lover, who scoops
The pieces of flour, and my wife is one of them,
Who makes the fine art of fork
On a bowl of fettucine, a dripping exercise
At how a little fragment of starch can fill a little gap.
My wife tells me pasta is better than sex. Better
Than Game of Thrones or Harry Potter.
Better than the little grains of biryani rice
That fold inside your fingers. Pasta
Is what puts her in Rome, and when
In Rome, you become a Roman,
Worming into the vermicelli,
Your mouth like a filled compost bin,
While you are greeted at the other
End with a good load of packed starch,
When you become like the big bad wolf,
Huffing and puffing, to get
The spaghetti poop out.

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