No Matter How Hungry

She sees me glance at the kitchen floor,
shrugs her shoulders
and says, “It has character…

tells a story.”

The seven inch slash of marinara
speaks of pizza abuse,
spaghetti flinging or

some Mafioso mystery.

Crumbs leave a trail
so disturbed by foot traffic
that neither origin or destination

can be tracked.

Splots dot the vinyl floor
in denominations of dimes, pennies,
nickels, quarters, and,

still crawling, intergalactic currency.

Mainly, the floor cries out,
“If it falls jelly side down,
don’t pick it up
to eat it.

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