For Charles Bukowski

I still expect my

Genius to be discovered.

Until then, I’m baking pies

And scribbling cook’s notes.

If these scan sometimes,

I can’t speak to that.

There’s the time my pumpkin pie,

Crowning glory of

Thanksgiving Day’s feast,

Whispered as we ate:

“No famine, not today,

No famine, not today.”

Or when my last lemon pie

Said, “You there, Cook, don’t

Stint on the meringue.”

Pie, it pointed out,

Once and future, everywhere,

Needs its curlicues.

I’d say more of what I hear –

The garden’s revelation,

The chickens’ filthy gossip,

But poems are best kept short,

If by imitation we

Are to honor life.