Pasta People

I cry while I drive, grieve while I eat,

blubbering with peanut-butter in my mouth.

Who has time for melodrama in this economy?

I can’t care for myself. If I had a child,

I would plant him on someone else’s doorstep

and watch him wax like a moon from afar.

I say words just to see what happens.

Snickerdoodle. Bioluminescent. Lollygag.

It all sounds fake to me, like how pet fish

don’t recognize their own names.

Who has time for wonder?.

Whitman said we contain multitudes,

but I’ve scraped my guts clean and found

only a bloated god coughing up dirty water.

Who has time to own their body?

We can only make macaroni art out of our parts.