One pizza, with tiny pepperoni life preservers
floating on the mozzarella. Two Italian Subs,

with a salami periscope, and onions ripped up
like a delinquent’s report card. Instead of salt

and pepper, I’d like a thin layer of antique
store dust enthusiastically sprinkled on

the lettuce, so halfway through the sandwich,
a wave of nostalgia will splash over me,

and the tear in my left eye will pop out
twelve times like a cuckoo bird at midnight.

Three medium sodas with one giant, bobbing
ice cube, with Leonardo DiCaprio clinging to it,

serenading me with his warbled death song
before he turns into an aquarium. Four plates

of spaghetti with eyeballs—the eyeballs
of a voyeur, which are far saltier than the oculus

of the blind. And five orders of breadsticks,
but instead of bread, I’d like the fingers

of a Kosovo refugee so I can know forever,
on the inside, what it’s like to wave good-bye.