Like a sword of Damocles above a crimson lake,
the final mostaccioli dangles high above my plate;
though hardly superstitious, still I'm tempted to believe
that this doughy delectation has some mischief up its sleeve.
So tenuously skewered on my fork, that noodle writhes,
unwilling, like his fellows, to be swallowed up alive.
I might have seen it coming, had I been on the alert,
and parried this assault by putting on a darker shirt.
But that reluctant pasta has escaped my forked grasp;
I watch it (like slow-motion) plummet toward a saucy splash.
There isn't time to dodge it, nor to move aside the platter
as, to my horror, marinara on my shirt is splattered.
I ought to know by now to take appropriate precaution;
aware it's hopeless such a stain will come out in the washin',
O' how many speckled garments will it take to demonstrate
that the final mostaccioli's better left upon my plate?
Copyright 2004 by Larry Naselli, All rights reserved.