Candace Spills Her Spaghetti

It spins, it spins, the package from her hand,
chaotic arcs described by slender reeds
of pasta, dropping out beyond command
of reason; this is not what Candace needs.
One reach, one slip, too many to contain
an oblong, cardboard box that bears a small
inspection window, masked with cellophane.
She knows it’s gone; she knows she can’t recall
spaghetti as it skitters ‘cross the floor.
She slides to the linoleum and pulls
her knees into her chest, the cupboard door
is firm against her back, spaghetti lulls
her mind into a place of sobbing cries
while scattering before her wild eyes.

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