The Poem and Pumpkin Pie

In the fridge, the latest is most reachable,

the first, moldy & distant

probably not worth the reach.

Especially ho-hum pumpkin

the average synapse couldn't spark to

without ice cream.

It’s memory without filling-phrases;

it lies on the tongue like flour

& speaks half-baked.

After the yeast, everything contracts.

Every night is lacuna,

every uncle shelved & dated.

I once had that pie fork-front,

with a mother & father to stand guard

or dictate restraint.

Squash-paste or paragraph-puree

it shall never taste more sweet

nor resemble a poem more than now.