Church lady pies,
lounge in the back seat,
taunting me.
Midwestern seduction
to the glories of God.

Blueberry, apple, pecan,
sold from crooked tables,
shrouded in white linen,
on consecrated ground.

Church ladies in knit sweaters,
preserving the sanctity,
of corn economy.

I can’t believe all we bought was pie.

Pinball vacations
point and scoot.
Backroads, byways and glorified goat trails.

Her sunshine Subaru
absorbed in the hunt.
Stumble upon deep forest drives,
gravel road mysteries,
tiny town festivals with…
church lady pies.

She has the eye.
Camera fodder can be anything:
basilica windows,
misty trees weaving in the twilight,
roadkill.

Mmm…those blueberries didn’t come from a can.

Hand-rolled crust,
lard-layered,
folded like Damascus steel,
blessed by God!

Chasing church lady pies,
somewhere west of Dubuque.