It punched the golden dough

Saturated with olive oil

Like it was its wife’s face.

Twisted and boiled into strips,

Thrown carelessly into the puttanesca sauce

Dripping starchy water across the battered stove top 

That needs to be replaced, its wife reminds,

But there’s just no room in the budget after

It lost its job at the bank once the bank’s job was to merge

Not to provide.

Capers like its wife’s beady eyes,

Tomatoes like bloody pulp.

Someone get this man arrested!

TV flashes in a still house

Its wife is sleeping at the kitchen table

Drenched in puttanesca sauce.