pita

whilest on my mid late
afternoon trot i happen
upon an open

door. inside is a
magical world of ovens
and conveyor belts.

trains of flat breads zip
by, monorails and skyways.
i stop, stare, and smell.

a man in white wipes
his brow, adjusts his hairnet,
and sighs, 'damn its hot.'

somehow i manage
to ignore the layer of
bird droppings that coat

the exterior
walls and dumpsters of dough and
say, 'but it smells good.'