We came
Down slowly from
Atop Vesuvius,
Having climbed
To the crater
And wondered about
And imagined
The horror of
Its explosion
So long ago,
In 79,
when
It rolled its
Great weight
Over the towns
Below and
Buried them
In expectation
Of the tourism
Of modern times.
And we stopped
Half way down
For lunch
At a little pizza place
Obscured behind
The trees of the slope;
It was waiting for us
To arrive looking
For the authentic
Taste of Italy.
Sitting at a table
We looked around
The place with 70s
Decor and watched
The faces of
Bus loads of tourists
Wanting to taste
The slopes and
Say they were
Here to their grandchildren
Back home.
We waited an age
For the pizza to come,
But waiting is part of
This ancient place
Where time is measured
From antiquity and
So is pizza,
It seems.
At last it came
In all its cheesy red glory,
Steaming hot
And melting,
Cheese stringing
And faces aglow
With the richness of
It’s taste.
Buffalo mozzarella
And tomatoes grown
On the slopes of Vesuvius
Were the simple
And earthy ingredients,
Sitting snugly on top
Of hand thrown dough.
We ate the pizza with
A ravaging glee and we
Talked and thought
About the fertile slopes
That created this
Gastronomic marvel,
The same slopes
Down which the volcano
Poured its fury
And the gods took their
Revenge on the people
Who lived and breathed,
Loved and died
At the bottom of the slope.
4/6/2016