food · motherhood · poetry

Custard Pie

The custard slouches beautifully,
shrugging off the crust as a suggestion, not a rule.
It’s just the right thickness, as if to say, “I am satin and sugar but also substance, understand?”
The “smoochie kisses,” as my daughters call them, tumble as they will.
The crust, a form-follows-function sort, does its job with integrity.
I’m pleased with this pie.
I press my fork into it, take a sip of hot black coffee,
and I’m no longer in my kitchen but a truck stop diner, one of those that specialize in honest pie and strong coffee.
I take a bite and now I’m in Paris
or Santa Fe
At a slightly dingy but lovable cafe down an unassuming side street.
I lick my fork and now I’m at a train station, treating myself between legs of a journey.
Weary travelers, conversation seekers, those whose pretenses have seen the business end of a pastry cutter —-
Is it these who appreciate pie the most?

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