PIZZA OF OUR DISCONTENT


If this is the pizza of our discontent,
then let it burn.
Let it scald the tongue of our dissatisfied eyes,
as we watch the steam rising,
like mystery, shimmering,
reshaping our memories
of doom and death
and Detroit.


If this is the pizza of our discontent,
then let hunger fill us,
spill past our gullets
as the pepperoni of pain sizzles upon
the mozzarella of mawkish misery.
This pizza's been around since the beginning of time.
We'll leave it be a little longer.


If this is the pizza of our discontent,
then serve no stew,
shine no wristwatch light upon us,
distill no spirits to shriek through the night,
agonized, annoying, irky,
to display wrath and bombs.


If this is the pizza of our discontent,
then I do not acknowledge delivery, sir.
No, not at all.
Take it back.
I'll have the spaghetti instead.

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