Nothing came up, and the money ran out,
so I found a job in the neighborhood—
food service, a new joint called The Pie Shop.
My work is what you might call whatever—
“Whatever sells the pies,” my boss says.
Turns out I’m a natural. A Midwestern smile
proves to be a mighty whatever. The pies fly.
But we’re talking savory—meat—not sweet pies.
No cherry, no pumpkin, no banana cream.
Sorry. No, ma’am, we don’t have apple either.
No sweet ones. Sorry. Thanks for coming in.
Smile. Then, more often than not, they buy
a shepherd’s anyway, or a mince and cheese.
Never before have I said “I’m sorry” so often.
Never before have I been so forgiven.