Pizza

Down the shore

The smell of the salty air

The sound of the ocean

The seagulls.

Tradition.

No comparison.

First bite

Reminds me

Of wind chimes

From the kitchen

Singing on the breeze.

Home-cooked meals.

Of freshly caught seafood.

Vegetables grown in the garden.

Card games into the night.

Baseball games.

Waiting in line

For outside showers.

Toad hunting.

Sandy feet.

Hanging laundry

On clothes lines

To dry.

Feeding the seagulls

Table scraps.

Ham and cheese sandwiches

With butter and spicy mustard,

Cold from the cooler.

I close my eyes

And savor the bite

The eagerness to taste

Home

Leaves me with a burn

Blistered and sore

On the roof of my mouth.

I run my tongue over the

Hanging bits of skin.

I forego the pain

Because of where

I found myself

After the first bite.