It Ain't Just A River . . .

Everyone here
has been trained to equate the smell
of blobs of buttermilk baking with
those biscuits that spring from the
cardboard roll like hostages freed.

After cooking, even the cats try to
scrounge some. The cats see the giant mutant
cats eat with happy faces; well,
they want some of that.

It's too perfect -
when you cook here,
the smell seems to waft
right up the stairs.

Now for my next invention:
a "meal-stick" that burns a biscuit scent,
to get people here
out-of-bed,
hungry,
and angry.