Pomodero's on Spring Street

So late in the day as
I sit to my first meal.
The nail shop, tucked above some
obscure, self-righteous boutique
is a snug fit for distraction
from the pie I slowly shovel
like some manner of automaton
between my tongue
and palatable joys.
They bustle outside—
inter-alley sketches—
the ground between them
belches out steam
on various freaks, geeks, & the occasional
pompous asshole.

I am now out of water. I am,
however,
not out of pizza-pie but
I thirst so bad to run the alleys—
as if reading it all vicariously
on the back of a Skyline postcard.