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.