The cake is set, ensconced behind the glass

becoming more delicious by the hour.

It seems the shafts of sunlight strike it so,

that they expound its crystal glories more.

–

And here am I, condemned–or doomed–to wait,

until the moment I become sixteen.

But fingerfulls of fluffy frosting taste

as icognito good (don’t ask)

as if my patience passed the finish line.

–

Impartially committed, here I stand,

and lion-like encircle round my prize,

and wonder how I might abscond a piece

while technically not breaking a command.

–

The floor boards creak, an ominous report

that fires like a pistol through the house.

It brings my dormant conscience racing back,

reminding me I am not–yet–sixteen.

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