Pizza of April (in RoseAppleFarmVille, USA)

April taunts like a schoolyard bully.
Sometimes it even steals your lunch money.

You smell it coming on, like new leaves and old socks.  
Its colors sob grey and steel and dung and leftover death; 
but they also shout searing neon green:  
I'm alive!  Look!  Man, I'm so cool!
It squelches between your fingers and clings to your shoes; 
it ice-water-rides down the neck of your shirt.  
Open your mouth; it'll pour itself in: April tastes 
of rust and yeast and sprouts and grass and electricity.

As Doc and BJ watch the rain outside in RoseAppleFarmVille, 
we think April is kind. We made pizza for lunch,
you know, the cheap kind 
with the cardboard crust?  
(Damn, it was good, 
like school days, 
or April, 
but less soggy 
than either one.)  
One serving is never enough.  
God!  All I want is to eat the warm smell of baking and cheese, 
the warm pizza of the air,
of RoseAppleFarmVille, USA,
of the universe.
Of happiness.

Though if I eat enough of it, 
it goes straight to my thighs.

Doc pauses over his last slice, eyes at half-mast, 
and picks up his – ah – riveting – story: 
“So the batch job got shoved in this utility doing all sorts 
of aggregate calculations.  You would not believe...”

I think that tomorrow I'll ask for my lunch money back.

Tomorrow you, too, will watch the April pizza 
dissolving down your window glass, 
and we will think of you, and wonder 
how yours tastes.  Like cardboard, 
or soggy schoolyard?

Can you sing like the children do:  
Rusty rain, run clean, pizza tree, grow green...

The sweet-faced cafeteria lady beckons: 
“Les pluies d'avril apporter des fleurs à pizza!” *  
Can't you smell it baking already?

(C) 2014 by Rosetti C.
Translunary Things

*April showers bring pizza flowers.

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