More Words Poem by Patti Masterman

More words; always more words;
He's stirring them, into the batter of the day:
Putting different flavors
Changing the shape of the pan
Varying the oven's temperature
Using different icings and decorations,
In hopes that maybe she won't notice
That it's him baking it, this time around.
Maybe the words alone, will attract her
With their sweet, vanillin score.

It's not my fault you're pouring your heart out
To a somebody, who would not risk one glance your way
Even to save your life.
But I don't have to like
That you keep on doing it.

Outside, hungry birds congregate
On the pavement, in expectation
Pecking up all the moist, tender crumb
Of your latest red velvet heart,
Filled earnestly, with the honest plasma
Of your simple being:
One more cake, she would not even sample.

Perhaps, if you baked a file, into the next one
To help her to escape her cage of indifference;
Stop pretending to be the wounded bird.

But be careful; she could always choose instead
To stab you, with your well-intentioned gift
Just to watch the blood come pouring out,
And then, yes; she would finally be happy
To lick your warm, savory blood off the street,
To suck your hapless soul
Into the ravening vacuum she is become-
And there are already, so many dead bakers
Staring out of the diseased city
Of her empty black eyes.