Inner Workings of the Mom n Pop Pizza Shop

Taped to the door’s plexiglass pane, a portrait Of a Savior with ardent heart burning Sunlight invades with the turning of hinges Untethering the hospitality of Tony, the lone waiter His Brazilian arms are swinging doors, open to embrace He wore fishnet leggings to the Halloween Jamboree Leather corset paired with his jet black hair, Moving with grace at the age of seventy To the right of the register towering above The marble counter, the burnout teen dreams Of welding underwater. A master of sparks Under the pressure of the indomitable sea Within his perspective the walls contort, Xanax whispers in voices of an angel’s Hark “They won’t know if the register’s short” Behind the oven is the maestro of cheese and painted tomato Luis whistles and sings ballads in the tongues of banda Smiling at nothing with teeth all jagged and yellow Welcoming all who wander with an “Ah mi amigo, ¿como estas?” A jolly grin and laughing lungs lift a belly made of pizza dough The oiled gears of a restaurant’s engine, fueled by cervezas Joe rides into the shop he owns on his jet black Harley To work with the line cooks in his leather steel toed boots He was once Philly cop, and he may still be stuck in center city He never lets his gun leave the secure embrace of his belt loop Yet under such a Italian-American macho man brovato Lies the soul of a tender soul that loves to cook for his community Across the street, sunflowers raise their winter withered heads The sizzling steak sandwiches sing in a chorus of cholesterol The leather booths welcome anyone escaping the World’s dread So come to Carmines, a source of solace for any and all