The bliss of sweet potato pie/
Is a promise so sweet/
We move in waves/
Spend years perfecting recipes/
Until one day/
The promise of an older/
Wiser mother comes true/
A little of this and a few beauties of/ that/
And if not perfect the pie/
As life/
Is better than we hoped for/
And the taste of/
Purest love moves in/
Memory/
With every bite

I wish the poem was nicer/ on this eve of the day we celebrate hospitality/ and survival/ we are treacle nice/ or try to be/ shooting for the hallmark pretty as a picture/ life/ considered rude/ to point out the hungry/ the lonely/ the ones sleeping under bridges/ are there the other 364 days of the year/ and we care less/ even ruder to point out the hospitality we celebrate/ was wrapped in…

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