My First Meatballs

this poem has not been worked on since it's original composition so it's still in it's infancy

Unknowing that I would need
Breadcrumbs to make meatballs
I made my own by running
A serrated knife over a piece of bread.
I then added the 1/4 cup to the pink
And began to dice onion and garlic.
The thin, clear, plastic cutting board that my
Grandmother had given me
Refused to say on the strip of counter
My apartment provided.
It ran to the sink,
Claiming it was dirty and refusing to aid.
Anger saw my blade hard through hot garlic.
After swirling the ingredients together I placed
Balls of the mixture on a pan. Spread out
Like the needed room to flatten.
Like I was making cookies. Meat cookies. I put
the oven to B and began to broil the meatballs.
They seemed flimsy to me. I then placed them in
A pot of Rague. I regretted that I had not made
My own sauce. I remembered a summer when
My father planted tomatoes beyond count
and we filled wheelbarrows with bumpy red
Berries and our kitchen smelled of sauce for weeks.
Now, my meatballs fit into the sauce
More neatly than I had imagined.
As though they belonged in their
little tomato bath.