the pie store

there's a husband
and wife pie
store down the street
from me. you can
smell the sweet
scent of baking
in the air, like
a warm wave of
angelic comfort.
all they sell are
pies. no cakes, no
donuts, not even
a cup of coffee.
but on the shelf
in boxes, and under
the glass counter are
rhubarb, peach,
apple, pumpkin pies,
boston cream too.
all of them are deep
dish with flaky
crusts. the dough
is rolled out and
baked right there
in the store. at six
in the morning
i see the husband
leave, covered in
flour, his hat tilted,
his back hunched
and his wife arriving
to open shop and sell
the pies. they say
nothing, but kiss
each other on the lips
lightly, then go their
separate ways. each
doing what needs to
be done to keep
this love alive.