the charred remains of my burnt tarts
squat miserably on the oven tray,
the sorry sight of my over-ambition.
Dressing the better of the batch up in doily and pretty paper bases,
I distract myself well from the brown bastards
who overstayed their welcome in the heat of the oven.
They are only sugar, flour, cream & eggs,
I tell me, yet
more than wasted ingredients
i feel the helplessness of
elapsed time never to
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