Fake Cake, A Mistake Poem by John Sensele

The slow march of fate
Grates and grins
When I dispose of the hate
My mind declines lest chagrins

Should dance and pounce on the smile
I treasure
As every morning I jog for a while
To measure

How much progress I register
To strengthen my failing health
And engage in conversations with the sister
Who promises to grow my wealth

If I acquiesce to be her escort
At parties she adores
To throw in retort
To challenges chewing bores

Hurt by her demeanour
So classy
It offends the misdemeanour
They fancy

When I declare inappropriate
The din they make
When dodgy deals they negotiate
Turn out fake as they admit their mistake.