An amber blue sky beamed, sweating the waxed paper cups
filled to overflow with despondant suicidal ice silently
screaming infamous lines from some colorized classic.
In the Year Before Classic, when all you had was what you had,
no new formulae, no razzle-dazzle, no extreme adverts,
when all colored carbonation was Coke, there was Frito Pie.
Frito Pie, how unpie-like thou art, yet as tasty as any
pomme creation. Long slit bag, all the way up the hip,
topped with food for ponderous thought: chili and cheese.
For the cheese ran, chili chased, and the eater not far behind.
And in the end of ends, running though seated, hunger unabated,
dreaming of more succulent, thigh slit, barely warm Frito Pie.
Though mountainous memories pale in the distance, primal
red and yellow in orange and yellow glow still, emitting
the scent of Little League summer baseball: Frito Pie.