I was walking down the street
the other day, minding my own business,
and wind whipped on by,
blowing my maroon hat,
the one with the gold 'B' on it -
Christopher calls it more of a mustard,
and I guess he is right;
it's just a yellow 'B' for Brooklyn College,
but I claim the 'B' is for Buynak -
Well, when I caught up with my hat,
just before the traffic, I smelled
the loveliest, most delicious, succulent,
semi-sweet like the devil, still-warm and cooling
on a countertop in front of a fan
loaded and slightly salted, perfect, plump
chocolate chip cookies.
I ignored the bathing suit gals,
wearing those new bathing suits,
with the butt cleavage;
where the hell was that shape
when I was a young man
without cookies on the heart.
I jumped over baby strollers,
swung on rafters, stepped on umbrellas,
hit the crosswalk button at just the right time,
floated on the scent like a cartoon coyote,
slid into the bakery, paid the cashier,
stuffed the cookies into my cardigan,
and carried on as my hat flipped off
into the wind again but I didn't care.
When I got home, to my shock and disgust,
upon opening the bag of a baker's dozen,
I could have cried and died, because
it was full of the reason I have trust issues,
oatmeal raisin.