I stood in a kitchen

stared at a plate

filled with lemon squares

two inches from my hand

I walked away

it’s the second day of March

and the weather still sucks

no recourse but shower and heed my own ‘advice’

a bright pink shirt

accessories

makeup

‘what are you doing?’

the three point five year old asks

bewildered-ly

‘I’m trying to look pretty’

I clarify

‘do I?’

small, aesthetic arbiter

‘No’

he runs away

charming, like when his older brother

accused me of harboring an unborn child

in my belly

several weeks ago

no, darling, that’s three dozen cookies

hence the sugar strike

Facebook assures me a Chinook is coming

ergo it must be true

and I can stop writing bitter-pseudo-haiku

(that rhymed, t.a.n)