Birthday Cake
in memoriam John Edward Cole Ninety one; if it were candles We couldn't picture them, Your cake would last for weeks. You moved through days racked up as history: Huge wars, new bombs and ways to talk - Nerves and confusion tainting the map. You made ninety but there wasn't cake. Late seventies you thought you were - Not stolen but rearranged. Brothers and sisters back from the dead. When mum walked out it broke my heart; She was scattered in the garden all along. My expectations were spinning plates. Each conversation was a slightly different man, Baking cakes in my head until the news came.