When eating pasta, I see and think...
by JS Schilling
In Brooklyn I see|
young men in muscle t-shirts,
flexing triceps and shadow boxing,
their waistcloths simmer
with the swell of the rrr-rumba beat
for their young ladies,
But a ticker comes across my T.V.
interrupts my dinner,
"Three U.S. Soldiers killed today in the war..."
I slurp my pasta as the newscaster
changes from a serious to a happy,
"And later, the hotdog eating contest was a blast..."
I look across the alleyway,
the boys still play games as old men dictate,
why we should, "stay the course."
More pasta in me and still I see
these young boys across the way,
laughing, singing, dreaming,
dreaming, sighing, dying...
With my last twirl of the noodle fine
"No war is worth the legs of these boys,
(especially not this one),
no war is worth the ignorance of grown men."
Copyright © 2007 - JS Schilling
Published: 8/23/07 · Author's Page · Next Poem