Pippin Applegate’s reserve of library books numbered the stars
(the kind that danced on reality TV),
but she hadn’t the time to read them,
for though her textbooks didn’t outnumber that stack,
they outweighed it by twenty pounds,
by significantly more.
as dense as her aunt Bobbi Dean’s triple butter buttermilkfat 5-pound cake,
(and Aunt B.D. herself)–
made her feel just as weighted down,
like Mr. Jonathan McIntosh when he was sauced.
Once she’d learned what she needed to know for a semester
(rather than a lifetime),
she returned to a life of wine, men, and poetry,
when she was feeling fat,
spent her sweet tea breaks noshing on the cake pop version of that pound cake,
to which her frenemies referred as “her daily dozen.”
Then came along Little Miss Honeycrisp,
demanding loads of dough from all who craved her,
making Pippin feel even more rotten,
a wannabe tart who’d been trying to pass as a Granny Smith
(the best for baking)–
more suited for mincemeat.