Is there any pie left?

 The Fall

is beginning to settle in

both

hazardous wind and sea conditions

and             

dry air and offshore winds

the Santa Anas

rattle the windows

as the trash cans

roll merrily down the street

ants 

but oddly no uncles

roam the house 

in endless trails

looking for water

or food

or just looking

my skin

this parchment

with the details 

of my life inscribed upon

the folds and cracks

reflecting a new chapter

a new season

is as dry as the leaves that cover the walk

the masses

are rushing around 

holding plugs up

looking for 

connection

are gearing up

like a siren slowly starting to wail

23 shopping day until xmas

and still nothing for uncle harry

panic is in the air

black friday

the day the balance sheets

for retailers everwhere

are finally 

in the black

looms ahead

like the glowing

capitalist beacon 

that it is

the real questions

on everyone’s mind

yet on no ones lips

looms large...

"is there swell?"

"where are my wool socks?"

"is there any pie left?"