William Doreski


Pizza in dislocated dark.
Small pies blush from the oven
like cow flops fresh from the cow.
You grimace at my simile
but it amuses you. The shrug
of your priceless hairdo betrays you.

Strictly a local effect, the moon
drapes in the trees like a rag.
The blue shirt I found on a bench
by the reservoir fits me. You cringe
because I wear a stranger’s shirt,
but I laundered away the cooties.

If you’d let me hug you, the fine
texture of this garment would impress
rather than disgust you. Pizzas
crackle and sizzle. Our friends
dig into theirs. Putnam and Lisa
prefer plain cheese. Brenda and Karl

savor pepperoni and mushroom.
Sal and Tony choose sausage,
green pepper, and olive. You and I
remain aloof from heavy feeding.
The walk around the reservoir
tired us, and talking over the past

killed our appetites. The water
looked too slimy-gray to drink,
but the city depends on it. Now
you won’t even share my lager,
your puckered expression remote
as the far side of the moon.

The pizzas grin and simper.
A cheese-less vegan model occurs
to tempt you. Your hairdo shudders
with pleasure, and you look my way
with little pain, as though one day
we might try that long walk again.


William Doreski’s work has appeared in various electronic and print journals and in several collections, most recently Waiting for the Angel (Pygmy Forest Press, 2009).