Noodles
I look down on my shirt,
carefully examine every fiber of strings
where it begins,
where it ends,
and linger on the interweaved intricacy,
an unnecessary connoisseurship.
These strands remind me of noodles I had this morning,
delicious and Chinese,
and I laugh at the thought,
I am wearing nothing but noodles,
my friend is wearing nothing but noodles,
Madonna is wearing nothing but noodles,
the President of the United States is wearing nothing but noodles,
Socrates, Beethoven, George Washington, Ghandi, Mozart, Jesus,
and all those great individuals,
who I thought would have nothing
in common with my humble self,
once wore nothing but noodles,
delicious and Chinese,
top and bottom,
in and out.