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Cake out in the rain.


“I left your cake out in the rain.”

My voice garbled through the answering machine.


It’s your birthday.”

MacArthur’s park is melting in the dark

And stormy afternoon. All that chocolate bark

And sweet mint icing pouring down the storm drain.

I left my cake out in the rain.

Before the clouds came in, I watched the men on the bench playing chess.

I sat before one with a tattered nutmeg cap and I must confess:

I tipped the board over.

The black and white pawns scattered to the lawn like confetti to the wind.

I picked up every king-forsaken soldier and ran with them until I had to rescind

Mutiny. My knees crumbled like aluminum foil that I lick frosting straight off of.

Collapsed to the grass. Game pieces beside me bobbed about in new territory.

Looked up at the underbelly of the trees. In a different book and body

This was the beginning of the story

About Wonderland that I read in the dark when I wondered about what it meant to be mad.

I never met Alice because, alas, I bit the bullet at the overpass, waiting to be seen for what I had.

Looked down at the heads of the paper-thin cars, aluminum cruising past.

The rain pelted down like angels clapping.

We all cheered like spectators from the sky. Rush rush rush to the rest of our lives laughing.

The raindrops race past the windows and down my face.

Euphoria. Lightning flashing. Smile when the storm takes a picture of my fall from grace.

Trees and grass melt and backgrounds puddle into tiny whirlpools.

I lick frosting off my fingers at the tea table where pawns and angels feast like fools.

Reason may say that there was a method to the madness but I am defenseless.

Making a mess, a mess, a mess

“Happy birthday.”

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