Tine’y Poem

 
Donuts.

Donuts presented problems.
 
..O..O..O..

Without sugar, I test-piloted

dozen

(after dozen)

growing glazed in choking rings,

certain the

next

(crueler)

would be sweet

–I mean…donuts!

Aren’t all turnovers sweet?

kicking scones to curb at last

–and then reluctantly—

because…donuts!

You get in a real rut with donuts, but

setting shoulders

and apple’y core,

I dusted myself clean with first–

adjusting hair

with pins…

taking hairpin after

hairpin and

cramming it in

do

~missing flyaways~

and locks like you wouldn’t believe

(so who’s telling)

but as my days of metal-head were

long gone,

I gave those up, too,

–less reluctantly…

since…

(hairpins)

moving on

and on

and on

and in tine, deemed the Queen Mum no more important

than self, so I

dropped silver

(and “special” before “awesome”)

occasion

negotiating the fork

in the road,

never once quoting

Frost.

prompt: fork