Ode to Cold Spaghetti

I take a potful of you from the fridge,
where you’ve been waiting since your boiling a few days ago.

Often I try to imagine myself a Romantic,
   but as I pull a few looser strands from your sticky mass
   using my fingers
   and drop them into a teacup,
you’re making it difficult.

You’re naked and pale.
Since I’m not one to write much on nudity, I’ll dress you:
Francesco Rinaldi Three Cheese Hearty Pasta Sauce,
   cold.

I’m rebuked on occasion to at least nuke you for a few minutes,
But it’s past midnight, and you’re not worth the wait.

Fork-wielding, I stir in the sauce for a second or two,
   then wolf you down in a fourth or fifth.
I reach into the pot for more—

I catch the hiccups after the third teacup.
My fingertips are doughy
   from groping lesser strands off your large center clump,
   bouncing and dangling stray noodles
   until the amount is just right.
Sometimes you don’t even make it to the cup,
   tossed down the hatch bone dry.
Flakes of oregano are getting stuck in my teeth,
and I pretend I don’t notice the growing number
   of marinara stains.

Somehow the flavor of cold three-cheese three-day spaghetti
blends with the aftertaste of an evening cigar
   and creates a curious delicacy,
   a bizarre flavor—

Woe!
Surely, I am the only artist to experienced this!
   With whom could I possibly relate?
I try to pass off this off as the fate of the Romantic,
but I feel too absurd.

I’ve had enough. I toss you back in the fridge,
where you shall wait

until breakfast.

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