Pot pie should be a microcosm of the order of the universe.
An encrusted mixture of meat and vegetables in a stew,
And baked until a golden-brown, at least on the top edges,
It contains all of the elements to make and sustain life.
It gets flipped over quickly on the plate bottoms up face down,
A position we take all too infrequently but should emulate,
Carefully uncovered to reveal the less cooked softer skin,
Even more secret than the fillings that it keeps enclosed.
Everything should be eaten decently and in order, bottom down,
Cutting away the gooey flesh from the golden brown crimp,
Lifting it off and scooping the innards away separately,
No co-mingling or confusion, a perfect trinity of pot pieness.
The cup-shaped bottom crust consumed intinctured by good gravy,
Then the flesh and blood and fiber, leaving only the golden crown,
Eaten center-out like the birth and death of the universe,
Culminating in a sublime union and communion of person and pie.