Cookie press rondel
by Anne Babson
[ poetry - november 07 ]
Scraping the spatula, I pack the dough.
I squeeze the handle, and a star pops out.
Iced cookies are concessions of real clout.
I don't use real butter, only Crisco.
Identical biscuits are just for show.
The neighbors suspect. They clearly have doubts.
Scraping the spatula, I pack the dough.
I squeeze the handle, and a star pops out.
Sweets are the antidote for what they know.
Chewing people can scoff, but they can't shout.
Chewing people can point, but they can't pout.
Scraping the spatula, I pack the dough.
I squeeze the handle, and a star pops out.
