she romanticized the delivery as a form of work-escapism

as dumb as sticks
or
not
from this side of town

peering up through thick
lenses with
a peevish, bookworm
type
of curiosity about her

i got the sense
she wished she were more
dangerous
like one of those adventurous
fun
sluts
that sailors kiss in photographs
or soldiers
paint
on the sides of death machines

didn’t know the address
tried to oversell
the product
“how’s your night goin’?”
it’s alright…
“well,
it’s about to get
better”

P
I
Z Z A !
-the box flies open
and cherubic Icari tumble out
flinging love darts
as we swoon
over melted cheese
and average
if not unflattering deli meats

her combination eye-contact
and atmospheric tone assured
a generous tip
I hear Italy has the best gelato,
i tell her while passing the
post coital cigarette,
“I’ve looked into it darling,
they don’t have a Papa John’s
in Italy for me to transfer to”

who cares?
none of this fucking happened!
the customer service was shit
their telephone connection
was out to lunch
45 minutes to an hour
for a Large
that was delivered in 30 -or less
completely threw me off
at one point
i wondered
if Papa John subscribes to the
immutable laws of Time

though
I can say
that with the night i was having prior
“it’s about to get better,”
was not
an unwelcome proposition

the crust wasn’t oily
the topping portions were ample
and
they do the
complementary garlic butter
thing

which was nice

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

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