Pie #317

Rebecca Irene says, “I wrote the first draft of this poem years ago—when a friend gushed over Bruce Springsteen’s concert, and then mentioned “The Boss” went to Denny’s after the show because he was hungry, and where else can you eat in Portland at 2 am? Later that month, I took my annual trek to Moosehead Lake, where I’ve spent time since I was seven. Walking the lumber roads, and picking raspberries for a pie, I recalled the taste of that cursed stinkbug. My poems constantly surprise me—the ways they collide presumably unconnected trains of thought. Also, #317 was my best estimate!”