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Peppering Piths and Picking up Pies

Standing at the door of the bakery,
The boys look to the window at school books,
And at the merit badges of the year before,
Cheering in triumph of having won them again, once more.

A refrogerator stands in the corner,
A brown mudpie by the dutch door,
The apron of my mother,
Bound fast, feeding my brothers once more.

Rising from the oven
She smiles and stands,
Reminding each to pepper piths,
That the other children may breathe and live.

And swiping hands side to side,
Each takes a piece, or perhaps two or three,
My mother raising her hand,
To sweep the mess of crumbs and sand of me.

Standing at the door of the bakery,
The boys wave from the window at her door,
And at the mudpies of the meal before,
Cheering in triumph to win another, once more.

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