Somewhere in Kansas
I felt my eyes closing,
Stopped for coffee and pie.
I pulled off the access road,
Parked my rig,
Walked the few yards back to
The small cafe and its
Broken neon sign.
I sat on a stool
Ordered jet black java,
Lemon meringue,
Engaged the owner/cook in conversation,
We talked about long hauls
And life in his small town.
It's not all it's cracked up to be, said Ed.
I guess.
A lotta folks think I have it made,
Owning my own place,
Out of the rat race, so to speak,
This place isn't so bad.
He sounded desperate to convince me.
I hadn't the heart to tell Ed the meringue was bad,
Tough and rubbery,
Egg whites over beaten.
It made me gag.
Ed asked if I was OK.
I sipped the coffee,
My eyes began to water.
I coughed
A piece of the pie landed on the counter.
It's not the pie, he said.
It's never the pie.
We're famous for our pie.

© Poem Fix 2012
Photo: Renee Comet

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