here’s your cake
strawberry supreme,
with the white flakes on top
you take a sample,
face crimping in awe
your soul itches,
how can i point out a flaw?
“the icing’s too sweet,” you say.
“okay— i’ll remake it straight away!”
it’s not only the recipe
that keeps customers coming my way,
it’s the passion in the hands,
that form the lavish confections arrayed.
i season happiness through my pastries;
each bite immerses you in a jovial oasis—
an invite to my indelible viennese table:
magnificent,
irresistible,
rejection?
not admissible.
“how’s this?”
you taste it and there’s nothing for you to say.
i’ve provided you the ultimate,
most flavorful cake.
you regretfully accept,
unable to ruin my day.
your nitpicking apathy has done nothing;
my mood remains unchanged.
at home you revel in the heaven
hidden in the fluff.
how could the hands that made it
be so unlikable, so fallible? — you think.
it’s the soul behind the masterpiece, darling:
fix your attitude,
bask in the love that sweetens the salt—
perhaps then, in others, you’d find less fault.