My cake, expatriated, feared
being eaten far from home,
being made of ingredients
Christian bakers wouldn't allow;
my party, exiled, loathed golden silence
where Viennese waltz, be-bop, and
cymbalom don't cotton to karaoke;
and my candles, exhumed one at a time,
heaved to be blown out by desert air.
Copyright (c.) 2009 by Adam Henry Carriere. All Rights Reserved.
