Saturday, September 19, 2009

Pizza Delivery Poem

by Alex Gallo-Brown

I ordered a pizza last night,
tipped myself excessively,
then felt guilty and asked you
for your phone number.
I’ve never seen a pizza delivery poem before

but Martin Espada has two bouncer poems,

I wanted one of those so I applied

for security guard at a casino

but they never called me back,

I think they thought my scowl

wasn’t fierce enough,

that I was too slim and untrained.

The ex army (or was it navy?) seal

told me the work was cake

but I couldn’t eat it too

or there’d be a dock in wages,

in which case the landlord

might come around, asking for scotch,

then spitting it into my palm

because it was too strong,

which would kill the romance, certainly,

with the girl next door,

you know the one
with the
tranquil mirrors and pitying smile?


the door to my apartment

a balcony looks down on a pool
of cement, the only liquid
the purple puke my friend deposited there

so gently Friday night

while I dreamed of olive oil and cherry lips

and the way salad looks

in a sealed bag,

all cramped and stunned
and foolish.

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