Lunch Poem
I can only ask
once ever time
at the one pizza place
with decent salads
to not over cook the crust.
The chef and I
understand each other
He nods when I ask
every time.
Please don't overcook
the crust. It isn't
a language barrier.
His eyebrows raise
at my attempts
to not say burn.
They won't blame me
when it happens again,
but it only becomes
one more thing not my fault
I can't control
but has repercussions
like water on a mountainside..
I don't know a car
and lack the know-how
to park in Southie
where others clear cars
by blowing snot
from both nostrils in the street.
No other nearby pizza places
with good salads
in walking distance.
Even bad food becomes
a matter of privilege.
This time, the pizza is just light.
The chef give me a tip
on how the pizza staying longer
in the oven helps cook the cheese.
I run out of the disaster area,
the damage slowed as much
as possible, a trickle down
the mountainside, a crack
small enough for a chiled
to wedge wider with their fingers.
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