by Greg Razran
Friday, February 22, 2002
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Last night, you came back
In the rain;
No umbrella; You could've
Climbed out of a washing machine.
I said nothing, but drew you a bath;
The steam felt good, as it hugged you,
But I could hear you shiver,
Through the crack in the door.
I made you strawberry pie;
I baked it, because I felt like it,
While you were in the tub, defrosting.
When we sat at the table,
You were wearing my bathrobe,
It was dark blue, and too big for you.
But now you looked warm. I smiled.
The pie tasted like shit.
You ate it because it was hot,
Because I made it for you,
Because you still thought it could work,
Because you were thirty-seven,
Because your last boyfriend punched you
In the stomach...in the liver... in the face.
You ate it, and smiled, and asked for more.
I felt guilty -- for using that stupid frozen dough,
That filling from a metal can.
I should've made it fresh, for you,
Kneading the dough with my hands,
Slicing fresh berries, gently, gently.
But we were in Elmira, New York,
With no strawberry fields
For me to run through ... for you.
We never said a word,
But sat there, looking at each other.
Outside, in the distance,
A stray dog kept jumping on my
Neighbors' electric fence.
He bawled with every shock,
But still kept on.
The clock struck three.
The pie was now cold.