Cake

I keep a page on my phone of language snippets that catch my ear or eye, and they remain there until I press them into service.

As I was working on the following poem recently, I got a little stuck and threw in a phrase from my notes just to see what would happen, and it changed the poem’s trajectory. That’s what I love about language, the way it takes us unexpected places if we let it.

Cake 

The future is where we go
in our tired minds
when we want to give up,
when it seems 
our best days have been spent,
where we hunker down on a roof
having kicked the ladder away
with our SOS sign
waiting for rescue, up and away,
the past battened down
and not floating around 
like objects in zero gravity
obstructing our forward motion.  
Or the future is a window,
small enough to hold in our hands
so it’s always with us to gaze through,
prisoners as we are of time,
waiting for a passing bird to flit by 
and to lift us—for a second—
out of the dreary present
and to offer a chance—for a second—
to believe in a  God
who would flap his wings
to get our attention. 
But we grow impatient. 
When we think of God at all,
we want immediate service,
a gleaming counter, friendly staff,
and a choice: For here or to go?
We want take-out containers
from Where God Is
packed with choice things:
entrees, sides, even cake. 
Because this is the future, 
and we’re wiser now. 
The past was full of gods
doling out gifts with conditions,
and we’re done with all that.
We’ll pass on the faith.
We’ll have our cake and eat it,
and having done so,
offer no one a piece of our souls.