Friday 30 November 2012

#85 - Don't Cough On My Pasta Fatso

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,


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