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?
Outside
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.