one cookie was L-shaped
as if it had taken a wrong
turn on its way to
the cookie sheet
another looked like a drunk
had made it as round
as the last time
he had walked straight
yet another a clumsy clump
crowded with chocolate chips
gleaming from the sheen
of their dark oils
no two the same
the pitiful with the grand
thin with the fat
for that’s how love makes things
sloppy impulsive and slow-baked
far from the perfection
of what’s sold in boxed dozens
that are baked with a
stale ingredient called emptiness
even cold milk
can’t wash away
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