When the Don comes to eat pizza,
they don’t fuck around.
They know the Don has no desire
to stick his teeth together on some plastic melt.
Let’s offer him instead the finest bocconcini,
like little fresh-faced children that have run around all day
in freshest mountain air, now resting
in expectation on their leavened pillows.
And if the Don is in no mood for bocconcini?
They know the Don’s a fussy bastard –
let’s offer him the creamiest of fior di latte,
or let him covet in his indecision
both the cacioricotta and the stracciatella.
But the Don likes his mozzarella.
We will not violate his favourite
with our philandering knives
or let it die a premature evaporated death;
we’ll place it whole, plump and pregnant,
and let it soak beside the woodfired warmth,
and we will take it to his table
like it’s his newborn child,
drizzled with its olive juices,
and he will prod its plump sides
and delve into its raw cool centre,
spreading it around the soaking base.
That’s the way to do it. Don Geppetto eats,
Just like his father before him devoured his children.
They’ll be the death of you, they told him.
They don’t fuck around when it comes to pizza.
– o –
Varese, September 2010