Isn’t this fancy?
I’ll try the pie.
It sounds like
just the thing
to juice up an
evening that
summed up
and averaged
out seems like
most any other.
And off this air
of mystery goes,
or so I say, my
grip still intent
upon the chef’s
until tonight’s
surprise. And
to my delight
the air returns
with something
all but certain
fresh from the
oven and with
sinister sleight
of hand the top
of that special
secret pie’s gone
gone vertical and
is smashed most
messily over my
pie-shaped face.
Sticking out my
tongue through
sourpuss lips
I find it tastes
delicious as I
scrape a bunch
of it into my
mouth. Peach
pie—oh, my!—
I’d only now
wish for a bit
of ice cream
atop it, atop
me, I find
myself
wanting.
Me, still
here, but
with a bit
of pie stuck
in my eye.
