Post-Pesach Pizza

‘Twas the night after Pesach, and I’m scratching my beard,
A regular post won’t do - let’s try something weird.
As a sigh of relief leaves the good Jewish cooks
and another Passover hits the history books.
we unpack the pretzels and corn-starchy gum
and pizza dough rounds, and plain panko crumb.
Yes, it’s that time again, back to the routine,
Back to more than one flavor of liquid caffeine,
Your friends will return from their exotic places,
and the Yankees and Mets do their best to run bases. 

But the fifth question I’m asking this Pesach, my friends:
why must we eat pizza the night that it ends?
Or if it’s not pizza we try to inveigle,
It’s standing on line for a mostly-done bagel!

(I’m reminded of when I once, as a tot,
Persuaded my parents at a foreign pizza shop,
that the one slice I had was the best on this Earth!
“Not so”, I was told. “It’s due to the dearth
of food in your tummy.
Though true, the pizza was yummy.”)

I’m not really opposed, and of course not accusing,
I merely find this practice amusing.
I’ll just - if I may - share one piece of advice,
(this one’s for free - the next one’s half price)
When that pizza arrives, the crust golden brown,
don’t fold it in half, don’t scarf it down.
If it’s your first unleavened bite, or not,
at this very moment, it’s the only bite you’ve got.
So eat it slow, chew once, then twice,
inhale the aroma, smell every spice,
Take your sweet time, there’s so much to savor,
it’s been eight whole days since you’ve had this flavor.

You see? Instead of one slice, quite fast and fleeting,
you now have a mouthful of mindful eating.