Grandma's Chicken Soup

I remember sitting wrapped in the cloud  
stuffed comforter of grandma's spare bedroom,  
hidden quietly away at the end of the hallway.  

I traveled entire universes of chicken soup  
galaxies, with their processed chicken asteroid belts,  
hot from the big bang of the pot on the stove.  
 
I was the proud captain of my own fleet  
of saltine spaceships that soaked up the galaxies  
among the pasta shaped stars.  
 
All my ills and worries I fought away,  
with an iced zap of carbonated ginger rays  
from my plastic cup cannons.  
 
For now, they would be kept at bay  
until faced with another encounter with the hostile race of aliens  
called Teacher, and their threats of make-up homework.  
 
And grandma was my engineer,  
maintaining the white porcelain bowls that held the universe's form  
and keeping my plastic cup cannons loaded with fizzy ammunition.  
 
I wonder if she is exploring her own chicken soup galaxies,  
with no ills or worries, making her way amongst processed  
chicken asteroid belts, captain of her own saltine spaceship  
fleet to chart a course through pasta stars.