A poem about an aspiring dinner party host making a pizza with a problematic topping that opens himself to the criticism of his foodie guests.
Inside the five hundred degree home oven,
pizza toppings of broccoli florets blanched, drained in haste, then
knifed into wafers with measured blade-side-knuckle-sliding strokes
knocking the old scored cutting board,
issue water that puddles in the pockets
of the crisp-patched melted cheese sheet
that entered the oven as evenly spaced slices.
The vegetable discharge seeps through
the tanning twitching troughs of hot goo
into the firming dough of the spongy base,
which will create a soggy crust over which
the critiques of the prematurely invited foodie guests
will make the aspiring dinner party host sorry.