I have tucked you away
with foods I don’t like to eat
and restaurants with bad service.

You are
the cold mass of linguine
molded to the bottom of the Tupperware,
no longer individual

noodles, the sauce congealed;
no microwave in the world
can make this good again.

You are
the apathetic waiter
who leaves my glass totally empty,
and who forgets
to bring the side dish;
and comes in halfway through my dinner
reeking of smoke.
You nearly break the plates when you plunk them down.

I know life must be disappointing for you.
You don’t have to make it disappointing for me.

So you’re in that cobwebby corner now,
staring out from dusty windows
with what you imagine is a sad and forlorn expression
and as we wander by you
(my musings and I),
one says “Let’s go in, I’ve heard about this place,”
and I can say,
“No, I had a bad time there once.

I’m not going back.”