my friend emily

my friend Emily
Dickinson who lives on
the floor
above, stops by again
to talk poetry.
she's very shy, but always
brings
something she's baked
while pondering
her poetic verses.
a cake, sometimes. muffins,
a blueberry pie.
she reads to me what
she's written
and then says, oh my,
when she sees the look on
my face.
you don't like it do you.
not really i tell, her
it's not my cup of tea,
but for you and so many
others, it's fine.
coffee with that pie?