A bright cake for me to deliver on a rainy day,
pinks and purples as requested,
reading: Happy Birthday, Dorothy!
The baker asks me which birthday is it?
She’s 98 and in hospice.
I resist the temptation to say, “Her last.”
Her daughter keeps me waiting in the foyer
of the 60’s modern apartment building
with its kidney coffee tables and satellite chandeliers.
Her mouth twists as she takes the cake,
I’m sorry if she’s been a pain in the ass.
Not to me, I’m just delivering cake,
I grin, having been a daughter myself.