Angela Howe

At The Walker Pie Shop (est. 1921)

All the talk is of the past.
Every meal recalls better meals
eaten with lost friends,
prepared by lost wives.

The waitress
with her perfect pour 
and cigarettes fresh on her breath
misses the old menu—
classic pies, even mince and rhubarb.
She hands me a dessert list,
says the new pies are good, but fancy. 

There’s kiwi macadamia, banana almond, key lime,
each flavor more splendid than the last.
I fill up on the names of the pies: rum-raisin, black-bottom,
double pecan, and cherry cream cheese.

The couple in front of me remembers
their first date 
46 years ago yesterday,
at this very shop.
They had split a glass of whole milk,
(no watery stuff back then)
and a piece of pie.
She says it was the best pie ever: Apple.
Pumpkin, he says.

There’s a silence as they glance past each other
into their shared memory and 
once more sip the ice-cold milk
and pass the pie between them,
each smiling shyly,
each taking delicate bites.