A morbidly obese maitre'd lifts silver cloches
from pasta shells steaming with mozzarella grease,
tagliatelle like a dead spinster's tresses,
a diorama of the Seige of Leningrad
made from sausagemeat and spaghetti,
a tiny maitre'd, screaming, (he slams the lid
back down on this one, flustered)
cold carbonara with capers,
a vortex, dragging at the tablecloth
like a tubercular baronet clawing at his bedclothes,
meatballs.
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