A Dozen Warm Cookies

the taxi pulls up
with doreen in the back,
black dress, a winter
wool hat, gloves,
scarf, she is prepared
for the worst of winter,
and yet smells like
a flower, wrapped
in faux fur, with boots
to her knees.
she holds a plate in her
gloved hands, an offering,
covered in shiny foil
that catches the glow
of street lamps bathed
in falling snow,
she has made me a batch
of cookies and has come
all this way to drop
them off before going to
see someone else,
and sadly the first bite
tells me they are oatmeal.