The Lady at the Back of the Pizzeria

You slide a pizza
into the oven then step back
in the wood-fired glow,
black bob gleaming
like a grackle in sunlight.
While the boss rings up
a chatty customer, you hold
the peel as a scepter
and smile upon your creation,
for this is your queendom —
the moment and the pizzas are what
you make them —
no need for a gown of violet
velvet — instead, black pants
dusted with errant cornmeal
and flour. You grab the neck
of the peel, make it your mic-stand,
and sing along softly to the tune
topping the joint, claiming you
can mash potato and do the twist.
They can’t keep you down —
whoever “they” are —
be it the you about whom
The Contours are crooning or the family
who owns the pizzeria. You got more
than a little bit of soul now as you dance
behind the counter in your Air Force 1s.
There’s not a problem in your world,
or at least that’s what I want to imagine.
Disheartened after a long workweek,
I’m looking for inspiration wherever
it rises — in the dough you’ve sculpted
or the moon climbing onto the rooftops —
I’m projecting onto you a carefree
joy I want to know so badly.
The Contours fade,
and a new melody wafts in —
the Beatles playing “Across the Universe” —
John Lennon repeating
nothing’s gonna change my world —
and you go back to making pizza,
working the dough
from blob to crust, and I wonder
if you’re starting on my pizza.
Your pursed lips tell me
you don’t know
the lyrics to this song,
or maybe you’re wondering
who or what is gonna change
your world.