It’s 12:45 on a Tuesday when I cross over Chapel Street heading north on 91. In the air, the tell-tale scent of magic. Not your ordinary puff of smoke hocus-pocus, but the alchemy that is Wooster Street, its fusion of garlic and oregano and tomato, the elixir of city water said to be its Essential Element, the kitchens cured with patience and love and arrogance. There is none better.

Poem ©2017, Jen Payne. National Poetry Month, 3. Pizza ©2017, Modern Pizza, New Haven.

2 thoughts on “Apizza

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