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You are much fingerprinted
but the crimes are mine,

You knew the rules, kept them safe
within your faded covers.
The splotches on your page
were made by me,

evidence
of those little mishaps
that plagued my vague attempts
at grandeur…

The five course dinner
reduced to three

and still
the soufflé snuffled,
hid its face
gracelessly in its center,

We cried together. Another time,
another day of hurry,
I watched the blender’s fury
soak your face with milkshake.

I knew I should have
used the lid provided,

Still, you have abided my indiscretions
with only an occasional hard look,
What would I do without you,
O war torn cookbook?

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