Memory, I mean. I mean
the pizza take-home box perched
atop the car while I loaded the important
stuff — what I’d been reading
over a combo pizza — a carmen, song,
a magic spell, O Fortuna. The poem
I was reading made me forget leftovers
on the roof. I drove home.
The pizza haunts me. Lost
forever on the road, may it become
a poem. Imagine a man in faded work-
jeans wondering if he’ll get supper.
And there, out of the lane
of traffic — pizza!
The crusts I was saving for my dog
he’ll offer to his own,
a clever little heeler with one brown
eye, one blue, who thanks with mismatch
eyes. Behind the quick-stop
man and dog will dream in metaphor.
Sometimes a poem
can do this, can feed the hungry.

From Uplift (forthcoming from Cold River Press).
This poem first appeared in Convergence.
Used here with the author’s permission.