Day 233 of 2026
“The Cake Gutters at the Gate”
Things brought outside that belong inside:
one folding table, legs uncertain on asphalt.
One cake. Six paper cups. One balloon, faded,
tied to a handle by someone who thought of it.
Things that stay outside:
the boom gate. The sky. The cold.
Things that cannot decide:
the candles — guttering, still lit.
The tallest one — present, already gone.
The laugh that starts and doesn't know its ending.
Things that will be carried away:
the boxes (decided).
The warmth (local, earned, the size of one small flame).
Things left on the asphalt after:
nothing visible. Only the rectangle
where the table stood — slightly cleaner,
slightly darker, already
being rained on by the ordinary air.