It’s clearly out of my control,
that mixing bowl,
the one I use
for breads, for mousse,
’cause now it’s full, no, not with fudge—
with mud and sludge
out in the yard.
My girl’s been hard
at work: “Look Mom,” she says, “It’s jam!”
Control be damned.
No need to curse.
My bowl is hers.
*This is a special form called a Minute … a slice of life with 60 syllables with an couplet rhyme scheme and stanzas of 4/2/2/2 iambs