I’m just like a flaky fucking biscuit, if a biscuit ever had cold dead eyes
Sitting here anticipating your calls and practicing I can’t help, no- quit calling me you grandstanding hag
as if ever a biscuit could have such vocabulary, or resolve
This morning I moved all my recipes to a new spot in the closet where our shoes once mingled and got so engrossed
cataloging and obstructing
I forgot to water the plants and feed your cat
This afternoon I plan to rescue the cat who is not yet lost, or rehearse on the cat if it’s still not lost
My schedule has way too much cat lately
I find I do my best baking if I’m slightly angry, with thumbprints on my glasses and flour in my hair
Tomorrow I will augment my biscuit with rare salt and pancetta (the most intriguing of the ancient cured meats)
And wholly abstain at a sunny table deflecting all present and future responsibility, and imagine you treacherous and unsuspecting
and that you probably never enjoyed my biscuit in the least
But you are not calling me anything, or anymore
xxxxxx