I disdain your pizza order.
These are ignorant toppings.
Once I commanded ravens
to deliver fresh bread
to Elijah in the wilderness.
Now I deliver pizza.

Flat tablets of cardboard stacked
on a moped’s rack:
these are my commandments,
written in pepperoni and artichoke.

I wait to pick up another
unholy order.

There was no tip.

One day, you will face
my judgement, as did
the Israelites who spat out
my manna, demanding quail.

I shall smite you with a plague,
a stuffed crust stuck
in your gaping maw.

Your driver has arrived.

————

Mark Day works in the charity sector and lives in London, UK. He has a serious job, so relaxes by writing poetry and trying to get it published. He rarely sleeps.