Remembering the Good Times

The snow melted away, revealing

the frozen pizzas that had accumulated over the month

leaning against the cold, gray headstone

in a soggy, solid mess. Someone

had carefully removed them from their boxes

their plastic wrappers, set them on top of one another

as an offering to the man underground

some cheap, national brand, the kind without vegetables

thin as a Frisbee with about as much flavor.

There were three pizzas in all, which led to speculations

on how many pizzas the dead man could have consumed himself

in one sitting, or if he was meant to share them with someone

or if there had been some special deal you got

if you bought three pizzas at once

instead of just one.

It was February, just past the worst part of winter

early enough before the first good thaw

that the pizzas would probably have still been good enough

for someone to pick up off of the ground

and take home to eat.