Another Pie Poem
Here's another pie related poem I wrote and got to perform for October's Third Thursday. I had a lot of fun writing this one.
Pie eating contest.
Mrs. Pollard, my fourth grade teacher,
in her infinite wisdom,
instituted bi-weekly pie eating competitions.
Where this unbridled and frenzied consumption of calories and sugar
fit into an age appropriate educational curriculum
is a mystery.
and lovely mystery.
You are looking at the year long,
pie eating champion.
I have a t-shirt designed all planned out.
Later in life I imagined Mrs. Pollard placing
bets on us with the other teachers.
“Who won today?”
A March Madness style,
pie related, betting pool
in the lounge,
money exchanging hands.
feeling like half a birthday
or an 1/8 of a Christmas.
Brown school paper towel
boasting enough space for pie shrapnel ,
Around the table
steely eyed combatants:
friends, bullies, nerds
future nerds, wall flowers, class clowns,
bad kids, good kids.
All of them Suckers.
I’d eye them, sending out aggressive 4th grade vibes.
“You don’t know me!” my eyes would say.
“Don’t mess with me.
I will mess you up.
I am bad ass, pie eating robot!”
Hostess lunch box pies
wax paper wrappers,
glistening with promise
like sugar glazed pocketbooks.
would cascade in cavalcade of dull thuds
onto the table.
I’d eye my pie. My tiny will straining
towards the predestined
deep fried confection.
Vanilla. I always chose vanilla.
Pudding charged pastry
don’t be hasty
set down with precision
unwrapped with affection
placed just so.
Waiting for go.
Hands were not allowed.
They were locked like
honor system pretzels behind backs
this was the feral feel
of straight mouth to pie frenzy.
All eyes waiting
for the big hand to get to the 6.
boasting adrenaline levels not attainable in adult life
5, 4, 3, 2, 1
A proud 48.25 seconds later
I emerge from a filling crust and haze
the reigning king
of consumption, the
the thoroughbred of the teacher’s lounge
I’d like to think that Mrs. Pollard,
or a least Mrs. Pollards’ bookie,
always doubled down on
my name when pie day arrived.
And later in life she retired early
because of her vast winnings.
That year I had to memorize multiplication tables
including 11’s and 12’s.
Joni Willingham, prettiest girl in the 4th grade,
broke my heart.
Once on the playground.
Once in a note.
And I was forced to oldest child adjust
to a 1990, new brother baby.
All I can say is,
the pie certainly helped