Ravioli Madness

the waiter brings you
a hot plate full of
small soft squares,
with scalloped edges,
plump like little
pillows covered
in a deep dark red
sauce, the steam
rises up like
heaven into your nose
your eyes, your soul.
the pasta is fragile
and subtle like a
sensuous kiss as it
hits your parted lips
and your tongue folds
around the spices and
the flavor of cheese
and sauce together.
you almost faint with
happiness, and grab
the table, as your fork
gets another, and then
another, you can't
stop yourself,
as the sauce begins
to splatter onto
your white shirt.
the wine spills down
your throat. you
are with someone, but
you've stopped
listening to her
a long time ago, she
babbles on and on
about herself, telling
you things you don't
care about. if she
removed her dress
and stood there in
her black silky
underwear and said
i'm yours, i love you,
take me now. it wouldn't
matter. because it's
all about the ravioli
now. it's too late,
much too late for her.