Orzo it Seems

my past was

a mess. . .

eating me alive,

but I flipped the tables

on it.
 
 
Covered it in checkered cloth.

(red)

Sucking up the whine.

(white)

And stopped tossing bread

after baloney.

(blue)

Shaped pasta from

a past,

and repast

was

–I gotta say—

fare play.

Then presently,

my present

well, now, what about my presence. . .

more a presentation,

than a truth, so

I’m nipping it

in bud.

Forming friends

with myself to better distinguish gold and silver and tarnish, too,

my next

still so mysterious

who’s to say what’s next…

a nexus, I imagine,

combining all of that which came

B 4

2 day

–in interplay–

suiting

me

2

T.