Party Instructions

Eat the cake Magda, 

even if the flour and salt 

turn to paste on your tongue. 

And keep working the room. 

You’ve caught the eye of a single banker 

and a married baker.

Neither care that

you’ve crumpled your cocktail napkin

into a sweaty ball in your fist

instead of folding it twice over. 

Eat the cake, 

and dance alone. 

Your shoes are reading

This machine kills fascists. 

And you're making eyes

at a sweater vested 

jalopy owner who could 

smoosh your butterfly

good and proper

even with a mouth full 

of cake paste

and cab fare jangling 

in his pockets.

But you’ll eat the cake.

And come home alone,

still clutching that cocktail napkin

in your hand like you were saving it

for your scrapbook.

For my first Poems in April prompt at Toads, I wrote a new installment in my black birthday cake series. For this out of standard prompt, I asked the Garden Dwellers to pick an image of a protest sign and write a poem with the phrase that was in no way political.  For my image, I chose this image of my favorite protestor: Woody Guthrie.