The candles flicker
atop the cloud of frosting,
dripping tears of wax.
The words start to stack
like a cairn of inky stones
on a paper shore.
of soft bread and sticky cheese
tempt my mouth with burns.
The metal pieces
march down the board, conquering
with drums beat by dice.
This year I won’t scratch
the couch, the rug, or the bed
unless I’m hungry.
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