There, lying on the plate, in a
puddle of red sauce, was spaghetti.
Tangled and maimed, it rolled over,
called out for help--I looked it over;
no one's eyes moved from their own
dish. I poked it with my fork,
watched in shock as the sauce
flowed from her forearm, just like noodles
on the stained sidewalk.
She rolled over again, announced that
she had defecated herself and
went back to pouring out sauce.
The tomatoes tasted of ground beef and refuse.
The lights began to flash, the
uniformed men scooped up the pasta,
taped the perimeter around my plate,
asked me a few questions--looking for
some sort of recipe, I suppose; I felt sick
and asked to be excused.
ED
This poem actually holds a lot of value to me. I wrote this immediately after I saw a woman who had been stabbed. It was late, and I was on my way home from class and I saw this lady collapse on the side of the road, so I stopped to help. She had stab wounds on her forearm and her side and was bleeding profusely on the pavement. I called an ambulance and told the police exactly what I had seen.
Needless to say the event was traumatic. We live in a world where we truly are desensitized to violence, thanks to the media. This was my first experience with someone THAT wounded and it really rattled my morale knowing that another human being was the cause. Now, chances are this woman was up to no good. She may have been stabbed for a number of reasons including drugs and/or prostitution; nonetheless, it's no excuse to stab someone. It should NEVER come to that.
It's funny that we think we are a civilized species, smarter than all the "beasts," but oh, how primitive we truly are. We all have a little animal in us I reckon.
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