How mollifying, late afternoon, when one is alone
and lunch is long over, to stop at the cafeteria
for a slice of key lime pie. You take a table
by the window and turn your back to the room
as if you have much to think about, when in reality
you are staring blankly at an almost rainy blank
sky and the windblown gestures of trees. You don't
linger, eating deliberately, carving each forkful
into equal parts topping and filling, which
together create tiny bifurcated hillocks of cloud
and meadow with a sandy crust below,
the topping the color of fine creamery butter,
the filling a green so pale, so diluted, its hue
is almost invisible. The ice water you sip
with your pie lends an appropriate austerity
to the occasion. There are others here:
the tall bleached blonde and her mother stirring
their coffee, the khakied group from an office
overearnestly eating a late lunch, the cashier
leafing through her newspaper. When you rise,
brush off your lap, and pause to take stock
of the one untouched dollop of cream
on your plate (obeisance to the pie gods),
your crumpled napkin, fork, and the old
airport parking tag you fished out of your
wallet when you paid the cashier, it is as if
you were never here, you never ate this slice
of pie, you never sat in this chair, chewing
and watching nothing out the window, thinking
of nothing except how finite pie is.
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