Dear Diary:
After a long day of work in the south tower of the Time Warner Center, I left that epicenter of urban aristocracy and walked to Broadway, where I stood before a metallic counter and ate a 99-cent slice of pizza. It was perfect.
I wrote a poem about it.
SLICE
The 99 pay 99
For a grayed man’s good
Handed over on a paper plate.White cheese on a whiter crust,
So simple
Yet so satisfying.Garlic breath
And grease on my fingertips,
I carry the residue
Of inimitable life.
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