Cake

Cake

a six-word, six-line piece

When I was making as much money as possible

as a Chinese doctor, I ate yellow cake

every day. When I was a writer, I ate chocolate

ice cream and danced in the moonlight. I wore purple

dresses and black socks and dreamed of luxury

as a Mercedes-Benz car to drive. When I lived in the convent, I was pure.

It is possible that the chocolate cake appeared on my front porch by accident. A mistaken identity. A drive-by caking. But the note, written in a careful Celtic calligraphy on a light shade of purple linen paper, spoke of the luxury of friendship and bore my name and that of my lover. He was ending the friendship with a beginning of pure love and a dark chocolate heart from Paris buried in the top of a cake from his hands and heart.

6May97

Just a break from the usual entries. Enjoy.