97poems/fifty
Fifty.5
The spaghetti I drop
on the floor
falls like pick-up sticks,
but less colorfully.
I could try to make sport of it
but I am not in the mood
Half way into the year past fifty,
teetering precariously.
So I sweep the floor instead,
gathering most of the earth-colored
kamut pasta in my hand,
spread across the floor
like shattered glass
but not as sharp,
like the pick-up sticks
my father took away from us
to protect my little brother,
but not as sharp,
nor nearly so colorful.
3/24/97