In the warm, still attic,
I knelt beside the yellow plastic bowl,
slowly pouring milk into butterscotch pudding powder
with my left hand
while I turned the handle of the egg beater
with my right hand.
My Mother was at work.
The pudding thickened quickly.
When the consistency was exactly right,
I sat down. White shorts on the hot attic floor.
Ate it from the mixing bowl
with a stainless steel spoon.
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