In a typical mock-
mirthful
ploy—to be right
at the nice birth-
day party—festive pastel flecked
chunks of
come-at-
able chilly
bluewhite ice cream
cake
practically falling
right out of their mouths—
the sly poet
begins
to pull back—and let fly
cocksure
that pie—must be
for grownups
because—say
some gory crimson slurry that's bludgeoned
and shoved
away inside—some arcane and off-
colored and
impenetrable breadstuff—
is truly
nothing if not firstly—a recondite thing;
before pausing—to hunt down
the glazed eyes
of his sugar-
spice niece
and
nice nephew—around five
who
of course—have even less than
no idea—
what the guy's after.
