He made her a pie safe by hand
in the blooming spring of last year.
She has visions of her old man,
pencil tucked behind his left ear,
measuring and sawing the lines,
sanding, then staining the wood,
claiming that he felt fine, just fine.
It’s them doctors who ain’t no good.
Fall is the season of her grief,
dead leaves piled upon his grave.
She thinks of his body beneath
the earth and hopes his soul was saved
That cold coffin was sealed shut, but
his pie safe stays warm to her touch.