You are the swindle of cakes
pretending to be good for me
and I play along
every afternoon
with my latte
you as my squat companion
watching me add words to the page
while I eat you down
to your crumbly bones.
The sun sets on the trees
like caramel
and my husband and I hum old tunes
and eat three of you
for dinner.
Hardly a balanced meal
but somehow proof
that the world must be decent enough
to have invented muffins
such unreasonable pleasure
in an ordinary day.