Apple Pie

dumplings tonight. the
dried apple dolls keep
on smiling with their
honey drop eyes
yarn hair and
peppermint red

gum-wrapper arms
for a big baby-hug
with big fake red
lips puckered up
saying “kiss me”.

that night ‘round nine or
nine-thirty we ate
juicy slices of dumpling with
our fingers. sucking
out the boiling juice
when it cooled,
wearing cranberry necklaces
and showing them

off -- using every single
cotton ruffled apron
that we had.

(fresh green apples)

porcelain-enameled metal tables
and checked
table clothes filled with

four hot apple and blueberry pies --

three big ones

and a smaller one
thick covered wide-brimmed
crust and toothpick marks

“A” for apple.
“B” for blueberry. i like my slice

a la mode with heavy
whipped cream. making my
own whipped cream while i cook,
i slide it along the side of
a heavy crock bowl,
taking lazy peeks
into the oven.

too soon
just in time
before it got burnt.

burnt my fingers again, the
lazy whipped cream peaks
as i am dreaming about
marshmallow clouds over the
minty lemon sunshine.

the whipped cream
should not be allowed
to turn into butter.


hot apple cider.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem