Dinner Date Copyright © Colin Whyles 2010

What a price I have paid
for thirty minutes delayed
made me late for a dinner date
with my pizza.

Its blackened face
showed its rage.

This breaded, cindered corpse took rights
from each carbon-dated bite
to show furtive delight
in denying (in style)
any pleasure it might
have offered to provide.

Would the lash laid scornfully
on my tongue
have fallen less forcibly
if I'd been remorseful
for each charcoal morsel?

Would one have thought that
the wrath of a pizza scorched
would be so strong?