Goulash

idk

She twirls it around her fork—

Peering in for an

Introspective look—

An in-depth study—

Hoping to determine the

Exact ingredients

Of this

Un-nameable,

Inedible,

Questionable goulash.

 

She thinks the brown of the meat

Resembles all her dreams of being buried alive,

And the

Red of the tomatoes

Is a sickly red,

But tomatoes themselves are sickly.

It smells rather like

            The mold that haunts the attic.

Touching it ever so lightly against her tongue,

She frowns and blinks the taste away.

The noodles fall like

            Limp limbs with a

            Disquieting

                        G            L            O            P

            Back into her bowl.

 

Anything would be better than this,

She thinks,

Pulling bread and peanut butter out of the pantry and

Chilled grape jelly from the refrigerator.

Another sack-lunch dinner—

Someday, hopefully, her father will learn to cook.