There’s that smell again.
It wets your tongue with cinnamon when you open the door.
“Wipe your feet,” she’d call, from the kitchen behind the yellow wall.
I knew I would see flour and dust and white flecks in her hair.
The rolling pin, the wax paper still out.
I’d have peeled the fruit if she’d asked. I could have helped.
Rolled out the dough, mixed the big bowl,
pinched the crust corners, and poked it with a fork just so.
There was still time, there had to be time
to stare at the window and wait for the bell.
I’d fashion some mitts, one on each hand.
I’d wait by the window, I’d pace and I’d stand.
A warm over glow on my face when she opened the door.
What could I do to earn just one small slice more?


NaPoWriMo Day 6:  Today’s challenge is to write a poem about food. This could be a poem about a particular food, or about your relationship to food in general.

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