*This came from a day in Dr. Shiring’s class when we did some kind of great activity that involved multiple steps. We had to select one picture and compare and contrast it with something else, make a list of adjectives about it, etc. One step was to write a poem about it. My picture was a black and white postcard of many round tables covered with all sorts of pies.
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I’m not as American as apple pie.
My family only made them in pecan or pumpkin
and sometimes a storebought chocolate cream,
the bastard of Thanksgiving menu stereotypes
and an incurable sweet tooth.
I skipped dessert and just ate more turkey.
We can’t all be “as American as” or “humble”
or “bye bye” with “a piece of that” any kind of anything.
Some are bigger,
some are thinner,
some are flaky,
some are smooth and consistent,
some are rich. Well, you know…
I’m not a pie,
but if I were one today,
I might be a small piece.
The first my parents sliced
and gave to the world.
I’d be a mince meat, because of the amalgam of
good and bad, delicacy and leftover, mystery in me.
Certainly an acquired taste.
I’d be so full that I’d easily spill out of my protective crust.
I’d hope to stain.
