There was a red paper plate
behind the tree that
must have been there for months
must have been there for years,
so long, in fact that Cleopatra might have
flicked the last crumbs of cake
from her dainty fingers as she
licked the tiny mountain tops
of vanilla frosting off her
lips along with a few dots
of salty perspiration.
Remembering your birthday
that came in the beginning of the Summer
on the green lawn, everything so impossibly,
ludicrously, lush...verdant as a more
educated person like him might say, with the promise of the heat
and our skin touching skin by the pool or
beneath that cast iron fan the one with
faded gold letters and an ancient pedigree, that
smelled sometimes of a blender motor
that reminded you of making cake with your mother, when
you talked about your mother.
That seems so long ago, this faded pinkish flake,
because it's autumn now and
this land mine of the relic past
hiding beneath the leaves,
made me think of you when you
are gone, long
gone.
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