A HISTORY OF PIES
I like pies:
slice of beetroot with tomato sauce.
It takes more than three pies
to get from Auckland to Wellington.
You start with a Broadway pie from Broadway
over the motorway to Hamilton––
a Hamilton pie not bad
no gristle like the Auckland pie.
On to Taupo where the pies get better.
Hitch-hiking makes you hungry,
you need all the pies:
mince pie with pea
tasty dry onion pie from a latenight
service station pie-warmer––
spaghetti and sausage pie
washed down with coke
or a coffee from a piecart somewhere
in a paper cup
(I don’t remember) . . .
I share a pie with someone I meet at 1am
in a leaky garage
sheltering from a downpour.
He’s just as broke as I am
cold and wet.
We get a lift outside Taupo in a truck
sitting on the truck’s hot engine
At Porirua the pies are best,
best New Zealand pies by far so far.
We say goodbye to the truckie––
I say goodbye to the hitch-hiker.
He goes off to pick apples in
Apple pies . . .
On the ferry that night
I eat a pie on deck
dropping crust into the black water––
the best pie since Porirua
(made in the South Island),
On the train from Christchurch
all the way to Dunedin
the tracks are lined with pies,
the train slides on gravy.
We sit in pastry chairs watching pies
running across the fields
kicking up their heels.
© Peter Olds, 2017
from TAKING MY JACKET FOR A WALK (Cold Hub Press, 2017)