Slippery sweet pizza grease oozes past its soft cardboard box,
Sliding through slots in the picnic tables,
Pooling in circles under the slow summer sun.

Stiff rocking chairs, stomping softly on this old porch,
Witness our concerns tossed to the wayside in our savage thirst for
Garlic-dusted dough,
Savory crushed tomato, and
Endless strings of this
Mad mozzarella which slide like music over our tongues.

August melts in my mouth.
Our swimsuits still damp from the frosty spray,
Bliss slips into my belly, sprawls lazily across my lips.

Oh, if Shakespeare knew of pizza,
What sonnets he'd write, what odes!
Letters arranged in red pepperoni sunsets,
Blooming roses of marinara,
And the kindness of leaving treasured crust on the porch-front
For hungry summer birds.