The Perfect Apple Pie



Mine never have that wholesome tidiness
as seen in magazines — the outside gold
and glistening, the filling’s apple-ness
contained, not oozing where the pastry’s fold
shapes to the pie-dish rim. Mine can’t quite sit
(as per those photos) where they ought to do.
The burnt bits glare, the edges charred, don’t fit.
The juices form a knife-resistant glue.

Others — I’ve seen them — come right every time
and effortlessly stand up to inspection.
That crust and fluffy fillings: perfect rhyme!
I had a friend whose lattice was perfection.
’Twas ever thus, and practice is no use
against the culinary rough and tumble.
I bow my head to failure and shame’s noose
and settle for the lowly (easier) crumble.

D.A. Prince


If you have any thoughts about this poem, D.A. Prince  would be pleased to hear them