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Why do I keep the best till last

when eating cake;

quite unlike wine.

My mindful taste buds

find their pace, start marks

from first eye-captured plate,

declared by sharp seep under tongue,

gland leak swamping salivary, amylase-ready,

first attack.

But then with

fingers, silver fork, or even, patience,

Latin grace,

I have to pick the landing site,

where to dig archaeology.

A cherry bakewell,

red top last,

or jam glued to the underside,

roof icing goo-spread over top?

My favour is

to face the bland,

sandwich crusts or boring crumbs

of comfort, prelude true tidbits.

As strategy slowly evolves, brings

nearer mountain summit loom,

my nightmare,

banquet guest of King,

We finishing,

my dish removed.

* In British royal custom, known as 'The Royal We', the Monarch always refers to themselves formally as 'We' rather than 'I'. When the Monarch has finished eating their dish, all guest plates are removed.

Previously published by Young Ravens Literary Review, July 2020

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