Chocolate Cake / Golden Sundae, 2020

birthday afternoon in Harlan, Kentucky,

Pine Mountain slouching like an old tired scab outside the diner window.

Me, Dave, Uncle Don - hunched in cracked vinyl booth like praying men

neon light flickering over a dollar slice of chocolate cake,

dry as Bible paper but sweet enough to forgive.

they said Happy Birthday, kid - like they meant it

passed me a fork and a laugh

black coffee refilled without asking by a woman who’s been dead inside since Reagan.

miners muttering coughs at the counter

I fork the cake like it’s communion,

like it’s penance,

like it’s proof that I made it this far from the trailer park

from the mine dust

from the Walmart parking lot fist fights

from the military recruiters with their shiny pamphlets

into this absurdly holy moment where sugar still tastes like sugar.

tasted like everything I’d ever been allowed to want.

somewhere in Manhattan some golden child with cheekbones like Swiss bank vaults -

beneath crystal chandelier sat Serendipity 3, gilded spoon in hand

mouth open wide for the thousand-dollar sundae,

fleur-de-sel caramel dripping from perfect teeth,

posing for photos like they invented joy

chauffeur humming outside in double-parked Mercedes,

their daddy’s hedge fund humming outside in Zurich.

but I learned this: sugar is sugar, and gold leaf is just decoration

love is cheap or expensive, but mostly invisible

childhood hunger doesn’t care where you were born

we all swallowed the same lie eventually:

that dessert could buy you something more than a memory

that class was something sweet you could earn if you behaved

that distance between us was more than a county line

I had to learn their language later,

had to iron my accent flat,

had to pretend I wasn’t raised by men who measured worth in bullets and black lung payouts.

I grew up learning how to talk slower, eat faster, apologize for being alive

they grew up learning how to talk louder, order quicker, expect more

but once we were all just kids licking icing from the corner of our mouths

grinning because it was our day

because someone said we could

because cake is still cake whether they charge you a dollar or a thousand

before we learned how to build loneliness into skyscrapers,

before we sold each other out for polished silver

before we mistook price tags for prayers.

Cake is cake. Gold melts too.

We all go home hungry for something else.