When The Music Stops

Call it what you want. Cakewalk,
musical chairs, last man standing.

I was a master of it.

Walk, walk, walk, wait for the needle
on the scratchy 45 to stop crackling out
the music, walk, walk, walk, THERE!

Slide into a seat and bump some poor,
slow, schmuck with bad peripheral vision
out of the game.  She’s a girl?  So what?
This game is for delightful baked goods.

Savory cakes, soft and delicious,
cared for by somebody’s mother.

I took three home from the school carnival
in the 4th grade.  A chocolate layer, a vanilla
sheet with white icing and a carrot cake.

My mom made me stop at three.

We had cake into Thanksgiving.

I could have gone pro.

– – –

I Like Our Planet . . .

I said to my son, and he agreed:
“We have blankets and stuff,
and food to eat.”  Which is good
enough for me.  “And,” he said, “if you
want to get out, you have to go up
to the sky.” But where would we go?
I don’t even have a plan to get there.
We can’t breathe on Mars. Neptune
is too stormy, Pluto too cold, and if
it is not a planet anymore, could I deal
with the downgrade?  Mercury?  Death
Valley year-round.  I have heard that
Venus smells like hard boiled eggs and
that the property on Saturn is outrageous,
especially ring-front. Uranus? Not likely.
I would move to Intercourse first.