the pizza joint

you can get eggs there,
all day, scrapple, hash browns,
lasagna too. a waitress
in a wig
will serve you at your booth.
but it's mostly pizza
that goes out the door.
calzones,
sub sandwiches.
fifty years or grease
and mozzarella,
pepperoni
with sal behind the counter
with his wife,
gina.
the kids too, the big
kid,
the sassy one at the grill,
the daughter, too gorgeous
for this place
giving you a wink as she
puts your greek salad
in a bag, your napoleon
in a box.
now it's over.
the sign's up saying,
thanks, but we're done.
we'll miss you.
the doors are closed,
it's dark in there
while workers break down
the ovens,
carry chairs and tables
out the back. throw menus
in the trash.
a sign is still taped
to the front door.
single slice and a coke,
three bucks. a nail salon
is coming next.