With modesty toward my talents
and no direction to their use,
I spin myself in circles
and let the dizzy
where it does.
Like a child left alone
at his own Birthday party,
I am dressed in black blindfold,
purple hesitancy and tentative dread.
I do not know what party game this is,
but I hold in my hands
the destructive instrument of prediction;
I will either clobber by bat,
or stick by tack,
the aim of all my blue candle wishes.
It is only after my guests arrive
and the adults uncover my swollen lipstick face
that I am introduced
to the pillowcase carcass of the piñata,
resembling a Thanksgiving day turkey
after every person and pet on the block
has had their fill.
It lays there trembling in tissue paper feathers,
empty candy wrappers,
and deflated ghosts of bright balloons.
All quiet beside the dense red brick wall,
that does now wear my donkey tail
like a coward in the middle of a fight.
I am scolded and sent to my room.
And they haven’t even discovered yet,
of my butter cream birthday cake.
So I laugh,
and wait until they do.