Pizza on a Paper Plate

Pizza on a paper plate  -

the kind that bends

like it has no long-term plans.

Grease spreads outward

in confident territory,

a small oil slick announcing:

this was never meant to last.

I fold the slice

with the efficiency of someone

who has done this before

and pretended it was an accident.

One hand.

Thumb bracing the crust.

The other hand free

in case I need to check my phone

and appear balanced.

The cheese stretches heroically,

a public display of commitment,

before snapping back

like it remembers its boundaries.

I eat standing up.

Not because there are no chairs.

Because sitting would imply

this is a meal.

Outside, someone jogs past

making good choices.

Inside, I calculate whether

two slices counts as restraint

if I call it “light dinner.”

The paper plate softens

under structural stress.

We are both holding on

longer than we were designed to.

By the last bite,

my fingers shine with evidence.

I wipe them on a napkin

as if that solves anything.

Pizza on a paper plate.

Temporary architecture.

Immediate satisfaction.

No paperwork required.

And for a few minutes,

that feels like success.

[Exeunt. The box remains.]

GBS jr

2021