Hey, half-baker. It’s been a long, mauve time
since you gave your starter dough a kick
in the lavender pants. Leather taut as tick,
your fingers raw, ruddy, and having a time
of it just trying to make a dent this time,
trying to make the supraspinatus click
like clockwork, but cornflower’s the word, lick,
lap, lollygag, and count out cornsilk time.

Pins in the meat of your palm. Take a breather
and see vermillion of the red room spin
-ning from your efforts. Hi-de-ho, the game’s
not up until the sourdough’s light as a feather.
So arise and go shiatsu on it again,
jackhammer till pale-green static sparks flames.