The Bad Son

My mother raised me right, said
I should never show up at the party
empty-handed.
 .                        .  I’ve let her down:
forgotten to bring the strudel;
and left the cookies home, too–
not that I planned on bringing cookies
since I only just now remembered them
home in the mason jar
next to the strudel.

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See Also: “Food, Glorious Food” at: We Write Poems

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4 thoughts on “The Bad Son

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