I walk in at 4:30pm to put on a red shirt and hat,
and to the smell of yeasty, fresh,
dough lumps.

Flour sits on the counter, as
dough spins through the air,
squashed as flat as can be.

Red smears; then white sprinkles
in a perfect circle within seconds. Each one
waits for toppings.

The pizza, lifeless on the counter,
awaits the oven.
A white slip of paper sits by its side.

The pizza leaves the paper,
for roughly 8 minutes,
until it peaks out the other side.

No longer on its own,
it slides into a box,
where the paper reunites.

Back to its previous location,
the boxed pizza lays on top,
hoping to go within minutes.