a flying plate of spagehetti

my mother,

being the Italian woman that she

was,

would throw

dishes at my father

when he came home late,

scratched and smelling of

perfume,

lipstick on his collar.

she'd take a plate of spaghetti

and meatballs

and throw it at him

as he sat down

for dinner, playing innocent,

smirking and full

of charm.

she'd usually miss

though, and the plate

would crash against

the far wall.

she had a hell of an arm.

the dog would

come running in, happy

at what he found.

by the end of the night, after

we were all

in bed, except me on the steps

in the hallway,

near the door,

i could hear them making

love again in the squeaky bed

with the clanging

headboard,

all was well once more.