swing your kitchen knife like a
tiny serrated sabre
and take yet another slice from this delicious
pie of my unnoticed labor

all the talents and tricks encircled
in an imperfect crust
for one
for all

take three or four if
one is just too small
five eighths
six tenths

just like Pi
with a never-ending circumference
measured in nths

take more
i know you cannot yet be full
i know there is at least one crevice that
you have not spackled flat

one half
three fifths
it is not the bread of life
but the pastry of its myths

and as the circle widens
grows a gap like the almond sliver moon
you snarl and fight for the last mysterious crumbs
meaty fingers and tiny little sausage hands alike
all grasp for the final
interminable
infinite slice that stands alone
too soon

I cannot blame you for your greed
you saw it cooling in the window,
slow wisps of spicy steam rising
you had your need
and you have so many mouths to feed

so here you are
right on time
at the wellspring
the geyser
the fountain of perpetual
key lime
frothing forth a sour meringue
to make each slice so flawed and yet
so sublime

and when more dough is required
it is delivered, a warm and pliable orb,
each day, a swaddled spherical infant
it yawns and stretches
ready to become more pie
that you will all
absorb