I smell everything cookies rising in the oven.
Cinnamon, raisin, walnut, chocolate chip.
I made them and I didn’t.
Measure, dump, mix, pour, shape, heat,
cool at a prompting beep.
Not till, water, weed, witness,
pluck at perfection.
My company was the dishwasher’s hum,
boys’ matters, a song recorded, roof, walls,
rectangles of light on shag carpet.
I missed sweating in the sun, sore shoulders,
dirty fingernails, blistered hands, a cooling breeze.
I now enjoy a plateful with coffee (another story)
out here on the back porch,
grateful for wordless cooperation.