Beloved Pastry Chef,
You who spreads stars
like frosting on the cake of our scalp:
Please, dig in!
Demolish
with your witness-fork
this sweet loaf of thinking.
Oh come on—
surely the great potbelly of space
deserves more than a nibble
of its fluffy masterpiece.
After all,
it’s your birthday, ?and it only happens once
every nanosecond.
No time for those embarrassing trick candles
we call “lifetimes.”
Beloved Chef, please,
meal time is over.
The dishes have been cleared
and conversation is getting awkward.
Have at us—with gusto.
