Pocket Pie

 

Pocket Pie

The boy clambers
out of mother’s arms
—nothing can stop him—
into my brand new
fresh in the driveway pickup,
seizes the steering wheel
and shouts FWUCK!
so we go for a spin.
Stop at mini-mart.
He points, asks, “Wha?”
I answer: “A pie that fits in your pocket.
Want one?”
Of course. Back home, parked,
we stay in the fwuck.
He turns the radio knob,
chooses rock. Classic rock.
I drink a beer. He bites crust, apple goo.
Saturday afternoon, April,
sweet as pie.

…..

First published in Your Daily Poem
Note: The photo was taken the day I drove home in my brand new pickup truck. My son adored trucks, would point them out shouting “Fwuck! Fwuck!” causing odd glances from passersby.