I will consider a slice of pizza.
For rare among pleasures in Gotham, it is both
exquisite and blessedly cheap.
For its warmth is embracing, its smell the
quintessence of hope.
For it can be found in all boroughs, every few blocks,
yet never two slices the same.
For its makers speak many tongues.
For dusting the counter with cornmeal and flour,
without looking down, they pummel and roll out
the dough.
For they heap out the still-steaming sauce and, with a
touch of the ladle, paint it in rings like a bull’s-eye,
or a tree-stump, or a thumb.
For they smile at each other’s jokes, grasping great
handfuls of cheese.
For wiping both hands on an apron, they nod at the
phrase “not too hot,” and start one of a hundred
little clocks in their heads.
For their corded forearms reach deep in the oven with
a long-handled paddle, giving each pie, with a flick,
its requisite spin.
For heat bubbles and blisters and browns the
miraculous crust.
For even in the tiniest shop you can find every style:
sagging with mushrooms and bacon, broccoli and
pineapple, chicken, and sausage, and onion.
For time passes slowly awaiting a slice, and reminds us
how sweet it is to be alive at this moment on earth.
For it slides to a stop in a little city of shakers, where
with pepper and oregano, garlic and parmesan, we
citizens make it our own.
For you can fold it in half like a taco and eat it while
standing or driving, or walking and working your
phone.
For I have seen the bearded young men of Brooklyn
sit upright to eat it, riding bicycles through
redlights, at midnight, in the rain.
For with each bite the paper plate grows more
translucent with grease, till it glows like stained
glass over the trash can.
For it has nourished our children and soothed many
sorrows.
For in a time of deceit it is honest and upright,
steadfast and good—beloved and modest and
known.
For its commerce makes nobody rich and nobody
poor.
For that, to us, it is home.
From the book Song of the Closing Doors
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