A few months ago, this poem was published in Good Times.
by Ruth Latta
I'm going to bake a plain white cake,
the sort that Mother used to make,
with flour, sugar, milk...Let's see:
What else is in the recipe?
The cookbook's in a cupboard, lair
of bake pans, clutter. Here is where
some serviettes have taken rest.
I may well need one for a guest.
I must clean out this hidey-hole,
not be a sloven, lose control
of cupboard space. Beneath the sink?
Oh, what would Betty Crocker think?
The page where "White Cakes" ought to be
is missing, left out, lost to me.
The loose leaves here are old and worn.
My plans for cake have died stillborn.
A thought occurs to save the day -
the food store, just a block away.
In "Bakery" there is plain white cake
much like my mother used to make.