Bargnani sat down heavily at his desk. He was exhausted, not by the physical exertion of practice, but by the prose aching to be released from his body. Pulling to him a feather pen and a piece of stationery, he wrote:
“As stars shine in the night above
It is only you I think of, my love
Others for my attention vie
But I indulge them not, I would rather die!
Delicate as wind sighing through the trees
The taste of you brings me to my knees
My soul’s flaming passion is set free
By a lover of highest pedigree
Composed you are of finest flour
Arousing me every waking hour
Formed by machine into perfect tubes
Contributing to my bulging moobs
Drenched wholly in a bright red sauce
Served to the side, a salad, tossed
Some crusty French bread rounds out the meal
In my world, only Primo Pasta is real”
Satisfied, Bargnani titled the piece “An Ode to Primo Pasta”. Unlocking a drawer in his filing cabinet, he stashed the poetry with the rest of his writings, some of them dating back to his childhood in Italy. Standing up, he looked towards his kitchen.
“Now, what should I have for dinner?” he asked the silent apartment, before laughing to himself. He knew the answer. He had always known the answer.