cherry pie

red juice drips on the white tile counter.

it was his idea but he lost interest

so ants scurry between the tiles

awaiting eventual entombment in grout.

the crust's got a hole in the bottom

and a slice without an outer. the cherries

are fresh, though canned makes a better pie.

their mangled flesh cleaves to the pits

proving a tendency to tartness. she's sure

there's not enough sugar or time

to turn this into desert before

the rattle of her muffler announces

the end of the poem.