Made for the New Neighbors

A pinch of salt - 
brush the pie
crust with a beaten egg.
Deliver into an
eagerly preheated oven,
fairly,
geographically.
Half a pumpkin, deseeded,
in a bowl. Colonized. A
jealous amount of cinnamon,
knowing that the expired sugar
left in the cupboard
might be hazardous, or
not prone to truth. 
Open and add coconut milk,
parboiled, Indian. 
Quilt patterns in the filling with a
ribbed spoon. Draw your parents,
succulents, men who avoided war,
tramps, transients, routing numbers,
until crust is crisp and 
vocally afraid. Filling, meet your crust.
With heat, a meal is formed.
Xenons whisper up from the final dessert, browned,
yawning, subjugated. Let cool for the new
zoologists. Slice. Serve.