On Good Friday, I wolfed down 

God-worthy pizza. Pizza gives me heartburn. 

Still, I worshiped every 

mozzarella and pepperoni bite

at our 2nd and Clement apartment.

Three-hundred square feet

squeezes me from all sides.

At our table, Mary spat out 

you chew too loudly!

as she cooked me 

with her oven eyes.

Before my half-consumed slice,

I phoned my tattooed friend Mark:

Hey, are you free?

He still lives on Clement 

above Green Apple Books.

In the CVS medication aisle,

Mark soothes with me a story:

when a Washington State prison

painted a cell

this Pepto-Bismol shade, 

an aggressive inmate’s 

pulse, blood pressure, 

and respiration all lowered.

I asked him with pepperoni breath,

is that all it takes? 

Mark displayed his Gemini 

constellation tattoo 

blazing across his forearm.

Hell if I know, John. You should ask the stars.

At checkout, I bought Pepto-Bismol 

and a green apple 

with a sticker

labeled like my black eye marriage.

Out on a Geary Street sidewalk

where streetlights 

muscled out starlight, 

I threw back a pink shot

and said with a chuckle,

hey Mark, this better heal 

my heartburn and marriage.

That inmate was surrounded by pink.

I’m now pink on the inside.

Published in Monetized Happiness (American Poetry Systems, 2025)