It is the cookie that she wants
No teddy bear, no owl, no bunny.
It is the cookie that she holds
In hand, not in her tummy.
She takes it with her to the park
She holds it all through bedtime story.
She’d bring it right into the bath
To her it’s mandatory.
Her mother sighs
Because she knows:
It is the cookie that will crumble
All over blanket, sheets, and pillow.
The cookie that she’ll have to pry the last remains of
From her child’s hand tomorrow.