My mom’s spaghetti is the best;
no other mom can beat it;
and every time she cooks it
I can hardly wait to eat it.
I twist the strands around my fork
with wonderful control,
but as I raise them to my mouth
they fall back in the bowl.
I twirl the noodles once again
with all the skill I’m able,
but as I lift them up to eat
they tumble to the table.
I spin my fork; spaghetti winds
around and round once more;
but as it nears my waiting lips
it slithers to the floor.
My mom’s spaghetti is the best;
no other mom can beat it;
but I would like it better
if I got a chance to eat it.
