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Stephanie Spiers
Journey In The Pizza Palace

I wait in line:
Monday pizza oozes its melt.
That melt
squeezed from mozzarella. . .
in an oven’s holy silvered place.
The heat makes it special.
The same heat I bask in,
waiting watching TV.
 
Melts the shallow hypocrites,
ousting a Dictator.
While thick smoke floats
over the debris of Baghdad,
bombed out Iraq.
They still live on in
voyeuristic TV bulletins.
 
White smokes crowd my senses,
mouth-dust, mote of eye.

They rest, on the salivating edge
of precipice.
That threw those into the ether
Aga’s glare like volcano
incandescence.
 
It is a throb
this calamity of life.
A glittering prize the world will squander.
At last! The cardboard box arrives.
‘Can I have
jalapenos on that to go?’

 

 

 

 

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