Sylvia, get your head out of the oven!
You are not a pan of biscuits
or succulent pie dripping juices
of fresh-picked summer fruit.
What will sad-eyed girls do
without you when you are gone?
To whom will they cry into their pillows at night
while they dream of tattooed boys with dirty hair.
I am thinking about your last words,
the ones that nobody heard:
“You’re killing me”.