They give you cookie dough as a bonus at pizza
places nowadays, chocolate chips and dough

lumped into a little plastic tub you take home
and spoon onto cookie sheets you haven’t used

in ages, following the instructions on the label
(375 degrees, 10 to 15 minutes, check ’em in 10)

to the letter—as if you hadn’t made hundreds
of cookies in your younger years, at home,

in college, in your first apartment, later in
your own kitchens, learning through trial and

so many errors that every oven is different,
like roommates, like boyfriends, and time and

temperature certainly vary, so keeping an eye
on them is a good idea, but not too close an eye,

because they need their space to heat up, to bake,
though ignoring them is not good either, since

timing is everything, and speaking of, there’s
the timer beeping, signaling the alchemy of dough

becoming cookie, with luck and proper attention,
so much delicious in so many batches, the chips calling,

We’re done! Come get us! You know you want us!