There she stands,
by the kitchen window.
Copper curls bouncing,
winking in the afternoon sun,
molten doe eyes, her lips aquiver;
the carmine ribbons of her dress
coming undone.
So quiet, you can almost hear
the cogs turning in her pretty head.
As always she waits,
listening
for the sound of familiar footsteps.
Silence.
Not a peep.
Then, ever so slowly,
a chubby hand reaches up as  she whispers,
“Last cookie in the jar…
You’re mine!”