The Pie

On the table there's a dish...
On that dish... a piece of pie sits.
See it?
The green dish.
No, the other one.
The one garnished with the small olive branch?
See it?
Yes, that one.
Its yours.


It took a few broad laborious scores to make that pie.
Humble.


The sundry ingredients were harmoniously contrary:

• Diced apology
• A thimble of sugar
• One fourth cup of flour
• A tablespoon of shame
• And honey, a finger full directly from the angry hive

In a foggy bowl they were given into marriage.
A mixing... my mixing... through my palm's laboring strokes.
Soft strokes.
...which continued until time held her breath.
Or truth choke her.
Something was absence.
So....

I ceased the mixing and place the bowl in the clearing and waited all night until...


The morning...
... when the clearing led to a pantry behind the dawn.
A discovery.
A large bottle labelled PRIDE, which I moved aside and there it was...
A smaller bottle same to the larger with brown, black, and green label, however.
With a name ending in two R's.
I opened the top and inhaled.


Mmm... Smells nice.


The bottle's content was a secret.
The missing link.
I finished...
And now it's finally done for you.
An humble pie.


Only we know the mystery.
Our own language.
I see you smiled at the "two R's".


I made it for you baby.
It took scores.... baked slow.
Real slow...


Look on that dish.
No, not that one, the other one.
The green one --


... with the olive branch.