August Pastry

In this house are many fans but none wants his autograph. He walks, for love, to the corner. On a porch are six couples. They stop laughing. He calls for chocolate cake. One slide please to prevent sweet darkness. He won’t fall this close, they wager. No thrills offered, no heart attacks, they reason while cuffs catch wind, then onion odors when he enters the diner from the alley.

Gold fish should not hire Piranha, he thinks, sleeves rolled, fingers in grease. Diners should not hire the addicted, licking digits. Don’t push the cake, he winks. Pastry is disposed of at closing in lieu of a decent wage.

One hour until closing and he is safe; the cake is within eye touch; he watches his quiet love. The fantasy is of a virgin until… After a day of pool draining the pool master thinks about those kids depending on the pool for survival. Tough for them, swimming in cement. The pool man insists on swimming in frosting, pyramids and swells, belly flopping in black.

Kitchenside bellowing will not deter; like a New Yorker he can close off the extraneous. The waitress recommends; the pool man’s dry dream is set and solid. His dentures will darken. His wife will suggest a furious brushing. The waitress slaps the cake cutter against the addict’s palm. Are you cutting or staring and crying?

Words for this injustice cannot be articulated. A glance before carving. During surgery he considers denture snappers. Cake stealers. The injustices of the world.

– Jack Moskovitz