Worth

The concrete pulls down hard on my deep breaths
inhaling violent smoke rings, lit by the pit of
an olive in my stomach

Ripped journals contain quotes of a time when
lilies floated on the neck of a wine bottle; a game of Twister with only dots
of red, striped sheets

But underneath the staff you hold, I cannot manifest how
my badge became so tarnished with spaghetti sauce
after an overheated attempt at cooking.