there were never pies on the
window counter
or cakes baking in the oven
there was never the smell of
home style type of cooking
in our house

fried chicken came out of a
box; frozen and dropped into
the fry daddy

we’d listen closely to see if
you could hear the chicken’s
soul scream in the greases soup

dessert was apples from the tree,
some day’s you get them before they
hit the ground, others you ate around
the soft spots

conversation was initiated by whatever
news story was airing, commercials
for **** breaks

while the pie was never there,
the cake just a dream,
while home made fried chicken was another
time period

this was still home, this was still where the heart was
in-between drunken fights over finances, despite cold winter
nights on hand cut wood, regardless of
living on the edge of over every
time we began to think it was safe to feel safe.