She serves me a piece of it a few minutes

out of the oven. A little steam rises

(资料图)

from the slits on top. Sugar and spice -

cinnamon - burned into the crust.

But she"s wearing these dark glasses

in the kitchen at ten o"clock

in the morning - everything nice -

as she watches me break off

a piece, bring it to my mouth,

and blow on it. My daughter"s kitchen,

in winter. I fork the pie in

and tell myself to stay out of it.

She says she loves him. No way

Could it be worse.