The Last Piece of Pie

If I was to die in six months
awaiting the collision of an asteroid,
I could cry with everyone or wait
to die with everyone or
check Facebook and Twitter. I could run away
to another place, hope for another fate, but

I would think about Leaves of Grass.
And the dirt on the bottom of one’s boot.
I could search for the songs of myself.
Reflect on what I have left –

Behind me there are trees that
I thought touched the sky.
I believed falling stars
were angels flying in the night,
following other stars that lost their way or went too far –

No. I’d think about how I found love
in a city and held hands with him running
through the rain drunk with dreams that may never come true.

Or I’d think about what I’d miss,
the whiskers of my rabbit rubbing against my arm.
The temptation of wrapped gifts waiting under the tree.
Some nights lying on the carpet tanning in the moonlight.
I’d fight to keep my sanity, but knowing me,

I’d pack my bags, head to Iceland
with my better half and bake pies.
Because who wouldn’t want to sit on
a black-sanded beach eating buttery-flaky crust filled with
seeping strawberries, topped off
with airy-whipped cream?

After mastering the art of pie,
if you ever wanted to stop by and help me
think of a slogan like
Best Slice of Pie Before You Die, or
Pie to Die For…
I’ll trade your advice for a slice and
we can watch the sky fall together.

Melissa Gregoli is a poet from New Jersey. Follow her on twitter (@orange_soda) and visit her blog (msallaneous.tumblr.com). Pie photo via http://bit.ly/P2XxvA.