Cake Walk

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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