Angelo's Spaghetti

I am here for donuts, but today Angelo is pushing spaghetti.
He is ill with the waitress, the appliance man, the wife,
and mostly himself, for cooking too much spaghetti,
so that now he is cooing it like a common hawker,
words falling from his mouth like a forgotten language,
his rage held behind the windshield of his deep eyes.
His father is coming for lunch, passing through a city
of window seats, his long face ready with judgment.
Already he has placed Angelo in exile.
It was the white wine yesterday.
His father suggested he donate it to the synagogue
for the dead, they had no preference in taste.
Suddenly, there is a buzz at the back door.
It is a young driver, asking where he should back his truck.
Angelo suggests several unusual parking positions,
most of them bodily impossible.
He swears a dozen curses on the boy's future
and implies canine concoctions on his ancestors.
The driver has no way of knowing
that he is the one person Angelo had hoped to see.
He is the white wine bought at a bargain
and the narrow contempt of a father's eyes.
He is the rush hour on a bad day & a wife that refuses
to come near the kitchen.
Later Angelo offers him free spaghetti.
He whistles a love song his mother brought from Italy.

Reviews

[Liza]

i enjoyed the humor and the wit

[deeps]

This is wonderful and cute really.
Such an enjoyable read here.
Amazing write.

[Donald Meikle]

I absolutely love riding on you trains of thought.

[W.k.kortas]

This may be the finest slice-of-life piece I've ever read; it's witty and funny, wonderfully constructed, and deceptively complex, and the imagery is yours and yours alone. A singular pleasure to read.