Raymond Miller- A Poem

Pie

She would come out of school

with portions of food attached

to her skirt, cardie and tie.

Pie, she’d reply, when asked what it was,

curry pie, pie lasagne, pie‘n’mash.

Every lad in her set

was her boyfriend –though  she’d forget

which one was which. They remained unaware

of the status they shared

or so scared they’d pretend to be sick.

Now she’s learnt to discern 

between pancakes and pizzas,

give spag bog and risotto their names,

we note a sartorial difference -

she arrives home free of food stains.

Can naming the dishes which we consume

help us proceed with more caution?

Was it luck, an alignment of sun and moon?

We hope for some correlation:

next term it’s sex education.