I bake humble pie.
Someone has to do it.
To a mixture of
weeviled flour, lard
and well water,
I add the anxiety of anisette
with the false flavor taste
of black strap molasses mistakes.
This is shaped in an earthen
platter of pity.
Cubed pieces of broken heart,
and slivered tongue
are then topped with
crumbled confessions.
This mixture bakes
in a guilt oven
until it bubbles over.