So, you like cookies.
He just giggles, bright blue eyes of ignorance look back at me.
I envy whatever makes him so happy, and I wonder the truth.
"You know," I said, "your rolls really aren't that good."
His hat sinks in a sad way, a balloon deflating.
His round, doughy little arms sway low at his sides.
As his head begins to tilt down, I put out one finger
and poke him. "Heeheehee!" he laughs, and is
bright once again.
He turns on the counter to get the frosting, a steady
plop with each footstep.
He didn't hear the loud, the freight train
surprise of a rolling pin
that smooshes him across the counter.
It was time to put some truth in his product.
"After all," I chuckled, "you are what you eat,"
as I slid him into the oven on my cookie sheet.
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