The Pies

The Pies

Now that the grain
has been milled into flour,
the cream churned to butter,
crusts blended and rolled.

Now that the apples blended with spices
are heaped on crust,
covered with crust, fluted between thumb and finger, and baked,

At last, the golden pies
come from the ovens,
The scent of sweet, tart, spice,
comfort and home
fills the air.

Then, with slices
some slightly smaller,
some larger,
(it's hard to divide a pie equally)
the pie eaters
go their chosen ways.

One group
gathers around the table,
taking leisurely bites,
licking fingers, wiping crumbs,
smiling at neighbors
asking how the day has gone

Sharing a bite of filling with the child
eating her first pie,
a little extra crust with that smiling
old man across the table
laughing.

Others
scatter fearfully,
Singly or in small, tight groups.

They find places to barricade
jealously guarding
each uneaten slice,
tense, unsmiling, fortified
with fear.

And one guy
in a suit
and tie
offers protection,
weapons,
security systems,
pie insurance

All the while,
slyly
sliding the filling
out from between the crusts

When will the fearful ones
turn
and find the apples gone,
the crust
fallen
on soggy crust.

Fear realized
through
fear.