My Favourite Pizza Shop
Has steel grates on the windows.
Next door, the windows
are fitted with plywood
courtesy of the municipality.
It used to be a convenience store
operated by a first-generation
Chinese Canadian
whose store had no heat in winter
just warm breath that lingered
with his mocked, broken English
as he laid change on the counter
and the sleeves of his long nylon jacket
made swish sounds.
He stuck a machete in his belt
for all to see. Still,
his store closed
from too many robberies.
The pizza shop’s warm, toasty.
In 2019, they opened early
for my son’s seventh birthday.
His thankful crayon shark still swims
on loose-leaf, in a birthday hat,
through a sea of slices
beneath a thumbtack
on the wall beyond the register.
Despite the window grates,
only police have broken in there
where the staff know my name, and
don’t mind my sweatpants or face tats,
and I don’t mind theirs, either.
They remember my order,
we gab at the counter,
they still give me free dips,
and I still tip, but since the bust
it’s double.
Joe Couture lives in rural Nova Scotia. Recent and upcoming publications include Main Street Rag, The Gorko Gazette, New Verse News, and others. His work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions 2027.
