Of lost friendship and brewed leaves…(for Bryan and Marz)

Spaghetti

 

Spaghetti on a shingle.

Side street herbs.

Those you grow in your garden.

Stock prompts.

Useless if still fresh in memory:

Pasta binge with spooked puppies,

and playful doppelgangers.

 

Spice not a catch

back home with stash

of brackish yarns folks hold out

to self-important tourists. 

Tales of ghosts, tales of foreign lands.

Taste of cuisine, our tales of distance.

Tales of separations, labial percolations

over gingery aroma.

 

Then suddenly your brewed coffee

turned perfectly sour.

 

“How could this be possible?”

Your turn to ask.

 

Peppermints

 

The feathers of Mike.

An angel in posture.

Like begets like.

 

Game face, Adonis.

Earnest juvenile.

Boys will be boys.

 

Plumose eyebrows.

Midget, cute flaxen glare.

Solitaire.

 

Peppermints.

Blackamoor, no.

Endearing mitts.

Yes, peace!

 

Spears wedge.

Prayers link.

Test Mike.

Three.

Two.

One.

 “Let them off,

   Mike!

   Suppose it

   as the way

   of seedtime.”

 

Young currish peppermints.

Pungent herbs.

Dark green

Downy leaves.

One.

Two.

Three.

Asawa ni Mari!

(Spouse of Mary!)

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