Pizza Shop

When I tire of sushi and the
violence of the shopping mall,
I flee for the other street;
its rhythmic heels and passing tram jar
an incidental score at worst.

Lunch has changed since ’51,
though that’s not my nostalgia—
it’s a cycle long since closed,
the foreign cashed for ubiquity.

But some things won’t move.
The rusting tram rails outside lie
timeless, like the grayish row
coming soon to a heritage list near you.

And punctuality, too, is still in vogue;
as, engrossed in some webpage,
I chew through the staples
and ward off the 28th
minute’s re-engagement call.

In this street, time has always mattered.
At 3, I guess, you’ll hide in the back room,
slip home or admire the shop-fronts,
while I traipse up to 90 minutes of silence
and a footpath marred by empty chairs.


~ by David Heslin on 17/12/2011.

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