Cookie Cutter

We while away the days in cold kitchens,
Baking our sorrows into batch after batch of shapeless cookies,
Watching outlines of flour fall to the floor.

Every now and then, we are summoned by the cry of an angry mother
Or the music of a party down the block on a rainy Friday,
But we remain, alone, with a tear and an apron.

And we converse with the radio,
Exchanging tales of fingernails and compass points,
Of staples and shower gel,
Letting the words roll like sad little songs over our tongues.
As the cookies burn themselves to nothing.