PICKING UP PIZZA
Diane Elayne Dees

The young women see me at the bar, and, without asking,
pour me a half glass of Chianti. Most of the time,
they do not charge me for the wine. They talk to me
of busy nights moving pizza, their parents' hurricane
recovery, and pro tennis--I am the only adult
they know who can tell them about the one-handed
backhand and the way things were
before everyone was out for months with injuries.
As they disperse to wait tables, I read poetry,
watch customers, or try to follow some television sport
I do not understand. The manager comes out
and asks me about the latest Grand Slam. The owner,
self-appointed daddy who never closed the restaurant
after the hurricane ravaged us, is ready with a touch on the shoulder.
He fed the animal rescuers, the displaced, the exhausted,
and the grief-stricken. The woman from the kitchen sits down
next to me, arranges silverware, tells me about her migraines.
They are the reason I go for pizza; they are the slice of life
that feeds me on Friday night. The young women, especially,
with their dedicated rhythm, their good natures, and their surprise
that any real adult appreciates their work. Sometimes they are
the daughters I never had, and I am grateful the wine glass
is only half full. Most of the time, though, they are sprinkles of hope
on the flattened landscape of this white bread town, offering me
the only fresh ingredients I have seen in a long time.
I take the pizza home and serve it, and I am sated.