Soup

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As I cut the onions, mashed the tomatoes
Heated the oil, brought the water to boil
Sautéed the garlic, Threw in the macaroni
I realised, something else was cooking
Because the soup wasn’t good-looking
And the pasta was under. 
But their clutter was the only dialogue
That cleared the smoke. 
The conflict that rose and settled
Bandaged what was broke. 

Nobody wanted it, the soup 
It was cooked after dinner-time 
In a rush, fifteen minutes to be precise 
Everyone had it, to be nice 
Alas, somebody had to digest 
That whirlwind of a storm 
Or it would lie hovering on my kitchen top
Besides my mind. 
And I would keep ruminating over it 
Like I did the raw bell peppers 
In a bid to make sense 
Of our reel in rewind. 

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