At one time she loved them,
those little black Oreos.
When I was only five or six
and was done chopping wood,
she'd show me how to dip
them in a glass of milk.
Now I sit next to her bed,
with my son besides me,
holding a package of Oreos,
and wonder if today she knows who I am.

"Oh you two fine men there", she begins,
(Guess it's a bad day again...)
"Are those Oreos you have there?
Let me show you how to dunk them in milk,
I once knew a charming young boy
that I taught the same thing."

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Proving you can make poems from everyday conversation (one person will know what I'm talking about).