Muffins

An adequate result of salt and heat
Gives us these muffins, rounder than the globe —
A sort of rough oval — and when we probe,
Demanding answers, looking at our feet
And hoping no one notices how sweet
The pan still is, she licks at my earlobe,
And I am devastated. I am Job,
Disturbed by boils, afraid, white as a sheet.

She's just a dog, a sullen, careless bitch
Looking for lost crumbs, even on my ear,
And whining as I try to make it clear
That muffins like these are too sweet, too rich,
For her, my loving pet. She starts to twitch,
Remembering the pizza from last year.