Your pizza
is mediocre.
Your clientele
bourgeois and entitled.
Your constant
truck deliveries
pollute the day-time hours
and the endless
crashing of
unrecycled glass
are the sonic gifts
with which you
populate the night.
This week
I saw you were shut down.
And O' the thoughts
of peaceful days
and silent nights
filled me with anticipation
of undisrupted contemplation.
Until today.
When you powerwashed
every item in your restaurant.
The grinding, slurping, glugging
could be heard from blocks away.
All day long.
Hour after hour.
The only pleasure
to be found
on this clamorous
afternoon
was the confusion
of your vacant
potential patrons
so put-upon
by your closure
they had no idea
where to eat over-priced pita-style 'za.
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