Runcible Blog

the noodle bowl

I walk to the store.
toilet paper, spaghetti o's, paper towels, a rice noodle bowl.
I walk home on street-lit cobblestones
while the bag rustles, still, my keys echo in October air
breathing faster – a plane overhead

The oil in my bowl
like drops of blood
is not
a placid heart that floats on salted water.

Somewhere a girl slowly kills herself.
sitting in my chair, I sip the noodles.
nose runs,
eyes drip
from the steam