The Last Chance Double-Cherry
Pie
There was a scream of alarm from downstairs
warning her of a smoke-stack rising.
Once the start of something great,
now a pan of onyx ash and burnt sugar stench.
Let it be noted that the ash was once woven;
lattice of dough roads designed with such attention to detail.
Every dip and climb and curve of its shell creating
rows and rows of perfectly parallel lines which
then formed perfect picture frames for the rich ruby
sweetness, that would have been.
Double-cherry pie, reduced to a smoldering crisp.
Her eyes were ablaze and when she reached the kitchen,
she glared at him holding the remains of her
once-sweet creation.
Shifting her gaze, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry
at the sight of his oven mitt’s design.
Its cheerful cherry twosomes dangled from
dainty stems which, seemed to spring
from beneath the pretty pairs of
new lime leaves;
it was an offensive black backdrop that set this scene.
It was too much irony—her patience had been spent.
The pie did not survive this time.
He knew just how, and what it meant.
No sheepish smile could diffuse
her ire for his negligence.
He knew that he did it and wanted to fix it.
But he’d lost his chance this time.
It was a double-cherry Pie, one of a kind,
dressed to perfection, carefully tended,
and molded— just for him.
It could have been epic but,
instead he just let it die that day.
She couldn’t trust him, to keep her pie alive
Admittedly, she’d reached her end this time
The only ingredients she had left to remake it
were all—expired.
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