Spenser Pie

A poet, or a cook of written word,
with Lingonberry lips from Christmas toast
is staring from my mirror. “It’s absurd”
I hear me tell myself, “you are, at most
an imitation cyber bard. You roast
with cuts of wordy morsels pilfered there
and here about the net. You’re but a ghost
of others baking words. You are, I swear,
cooking away... but one seems to care.