by Tom Kelly

 
When a short-circuited Venice burnout shouts,
the pie’s a fornicating communist! I almost laugh.
But if Brad Pitt once wandered this boardwalk
in a chicken suit, am I not obliged to test
my skepticism’s fabric? I chew on a slice
 
of free-range chicken barbecue, hand-tossed
by Hollywood’s next star or statistic, and consider
its disparity from the pepperoni marinara I call home
delivered, boxed youth, the taste of a girl I fucked
moving out
or The reason our hands touched
 
the first time. Centuries ago in Naples,
nobles called pizza peasant food. Then Queen
Margherita took a nibble and climaxed in her
mouth. Today pizza’s supreme lord of the internet
while a nearby gelato vendor hawks royal blood
 
to talent scouts who order strawberry,
make it snappy!
I slide my feet into sand,
watch the sun parody Hollywood film endings,
wondering when light over the Pacific
became lucrative cliché. Disgusted with myself
 
for once calling a big-budget trope catalyst
for transformation
, I point at the horizon,
roar the sun’s a sentimental capitalist!
and swallow my remaining pie.