PIZZA PI

JT, who, like me,
was raised on Shaggy Doo
and Twinkies,
who grew up three doors down
from my own,
who visits the old town rarely,
stopped over.
I took him to the old pizza place
we so frequently frequented
and bought the pie we so often shared.

JT stared down at our Double Pastrami and Egg pie
and did not respond as I’d hoped.
He pushed the contents around his plate
and told me about things
in his new town
with his new family
and how his old dog died.
"He was two hundred and three
in Hamster Years," I joked
but JT barely forced a smile.

"It’s good to see you," I said.
"It’s good to be back," he said.
"It’s a good pizza," I said.
He didn’t respond.
JT was not the same man
I once knew.
We had come full circle, but
his pleasures were different.
His inspiration had changed.
He had returned to our old places
and memories
and friendship
and was not pleased.

JT pushed the pie around,
staring absently at the pastrami slices
and hard boiled egg chunks
and pools of brownish sauce.
As he nibbled at the pizza
he seemed displeased
and I was discontented
to have brought him.
"I have to go,"
he eventually said.
I agreed.