She serves me a piece of it a few minutes <br />out of the oven. A little steam rises <br />from the slits on top. Sugar and spice - <br />cinnamon - burned into the crust. <br />But she's wearing these dark glasses <br />in the kitchen at ten o'clock <br />in the morning - everything nice - <br />as she watches me break off <br />a piece, bring it to my mouth, <br />and blow on it. My daughter's kitchen, <br />in winter. I fork the pie in <br />and tell myself to stay out of it. <br />She says she loves him. No way <br />Could it be worse.<br /><br />Raymond Clevie Carver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-daughter-and-apple-pie/
