In a moment of weakness (I’m a man, after all), I cheat
and order the biggest Sicilian pie
that my neighborhood will deliver
at 2am when I’ve been on fire writing
for four hours straight. And after, like a one-night
stand, I find the experience to have been
both sordid and sort of shameful, but sadly beautiful, too.
The cat looks at me with those eyes. I know, I know.
The buzz of an incoming text shakes me like
heartache and I promise
this is the last time. Tomorrow, I will slink back
to beautiful meats, lush cheeses and poignant
red-wine, safe in the knowledge that I’ll be
killing it on the beach on Coney Island when
the weather turns and that I’ll never stray again.