Spaghetti in the road
I saw a piece of spaghetti in the road, not a fork.
That stringy pasta piece didn’t have two choices:
a ‘this way or that’, nor an ‘L and R’. It went
all ways to show me that time is tangled,
tangled as a pocket headphone wire;
tangled as knotted hair in a hospital bed.
That Dolmio-stained spaghetti spoke to me,
and I listened.
As a swirl lit the air, the stringy carb flapped:
its tip waggled northbound—
keep moving forward, it whispered,
not as a compass would,
but,
in whichever way knows sense.
Then it blew backwards
and I stepped forwards,
to tangle a web, anew.
Dan Hughes is a content writer by day and a scribbler of oddball prose by night. Some of his fiction appears in magazines including Noctis, Litro, Spoken Word, and Black Pear Press. His poetry collection Verbal Spew is waiting for your ears.