The Absence of Wavelength

FROSTED

She wiped a silver spatula
clean of buttercream on black napkins
after each incision of a red wedding cake

three tiers, four corners —
what were my chances
of getting a corner piece?

i trod, clomped, lumbered
a lazy line in slow tow

She cut each precisely, plated
the pampered squares

One corner left
One small boy before me
He
got the desired lot

without a smile for her delivery
I grabbed four used napkins

savored cravenly on exit
her puzzled expression.


10.30.22