Carrot Cake Poem by Jerry Pike

Jerry Pike

Harrow, London, England

Carrot Cake

 


He buys the weekly cake,

slices, and shelves it in the lonely fridge.

Her years of baking,

lovingly crusted to the past.

She sits, blue stains enamelling her feet,

temporary scars from a body

that no longer holds her drink afloat.

He fetches warmth in a bowl,

adds mild bleach, and toes

and teas her up to evade concern,

while her feet unlace the dye.

All around, the stench of careless carers

drag life to its lowest ebb,

how little can they do,

without their chill icing over?

That cat food still on her dinner plates,

permanently roasted by three bars and gas,

you never see or douse. Six lights

you cannot turn off

and a toilet you can’t find.

Four cats, dressed as children in her eyes,

make the days bounce, bring joy,

in-between visiting strangers,

who spend hours watching stop watches,

in a who can do least race.

Care is hard to act, even the falsest

stumble across the threshold over trip you up truth.

But she doesn’t see, all she knows

is carrot cake makes her smile

and each cat she strokes,

brings back invisible memories.

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Jerry Pike

Harrow, London, England
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