Pie in the sky

 

The sky is a coincidence,
a gravitative greasy spoon
all you can eat within
one eternal weekend.

Without such a device,
we might just sink upwards
our crystal faces fragiled,
our forks and knives too dull to defend
strickled space.

Someday we’ll fall up.
(Sit down,
eat and wait.)
There’s always breakfast
a line out the door
for this kind of eternity.

Comb-overs, cummerbunds
coming loose
over our cheap chaw—

(You’re not hearing me—
stop wiggling
and eat your peas!)

Shit,
someone left the lid off
the sky
and it’s going bad

the smell, like pain,
settles on everything
again.