Last Day of the Season
Groggy, swaddled in a blue napkin and tucked in its basket, the last pie took its morning commute.
After work, the last pie sat on Justin’s desk and watched the tops of tourists ride by on the tops of buses.
Then, it took the subway to Morgan Ave where a certain subterranean steam bath that calls itself an art gallery was having an opening. There it sat in front of the fan longing for Eriola while Marco, Louise, Elizabeth and other sweaty art lovers partook of it, smacking their lips and cleansing their palates with beer. They whittled it down until only a last little sliver was left.
…and that last little piece of the last pie? That is a story for another day.