I roll dough into rounds,
spoon mushrooms, garlic, spinach
in the center. Add provolone. Fold,
seal with fingerprint pinches.
Maybe I jam them too full,
the way I do my calendar,
believing overstuffed weeks
won't burst apart.
They do.
 
So do the calzones.
One bubbles at its seam
like cartoon lips offering a smooch.
Cheese from another tries
to ooze from the pan.
I wish my weeks were as easily
dished up, unsightly but nourishing
with homemade sauce
and a salad picked five minutes ago.


This poem first appeared in The Sunlight Press.
Used here with permission.