Gingerbread on the Run

His body twisted on the oven pan,

uncomfortable, out of the place he belonged

that second shelf in the refrigerator

back when he was still smooth, pliable

and a little gooey, sitting in that container

next to the milk

and he couldn't see his friend anymore,

still encased behind that closed door

with all the other lucky ones.

The unfortunate ones around him

did not stir, stiff and crumbling

and unable to fight whatever came next

but the brave one tore himself from the pan, 

still coated in cooking oil and jumped.

The frosting on him still cooled, his white buttercream

shoelace sneakers drying with the fall to the floor

His cookie feet hit the tile and set off, 

sparking a charge inside of his dough heart,

he was born for more than a cup of milk,

instead, he was born for a couple of marathons

and they'd never catch him--

he was the gingerbread running man.