made from scratch

made from scratch

My Mom

would spend a whole Saturday 

making cookies,

white and brown sugar,

globs of softened butter,

one egg at a time,

vanilla, salt, baking soda,

mixing the batter 

before adding flour 

and the chocolate chips,

she’d scoop it onto a baking sheet

heat the oven, set the timer to bake, and wait;

back in the day

cities were a lot smaller

than they are today

and 

each town 

would have at least one

of every occupation:

four merchants,

one blacksmith,

one policeman,

one musician,

at least two preachers,

five farmers,

a handful of laborers,

one accountant,

one lawyer,

and one writer.

The jobs were mixed 

in such a way

that commercial harmony

was found on Main St.

and every county square

from Tallahassee to Sacramento,

North to Fargo 

and South to San Antonio; 

you had something I needed

and I had a thing you wanted

and we 

found a way to trade 

to mutually benefit 

both you and me,

but that was then,

now Redboxes 

still stand outside the pharmacy

while the majority of us

stream what we watch on T.V.,

books sit dusty in the library,

and the only thing checked out

is the homeless man 

passed out on the arm chair

in between the genre fiction 

and biography,

the difference between 

what readers we have left 

and the actual writers still standing 

is that readers want to get into another person’s head

while writers have to get what’s in theirs out.

Now matter how much you 

want something sweet

you’ve got to wait 

for a cookie to bake,

8-10 minutes at 375 degrees

still seems like a long time to me

when I’m promised life 

with ease

on my Instagram feed,

115 attend a LA’s biggest poetry reading

while only one of them

read something

like me,

is there a chance that gold

can still be found in the Hollywood Hills

or have too many sweets 

given this society cavities?

The timer on the oven

goes off

and I stop typing,

get up from my chair,

and take the cookies out;

after the first bite

burns the roof of my mouth,

I set the baking sheet down,

“I gotta wait,” I say.

“Not quite ready.”