Michael F. Goldman 🔈

There is no sunken dining area,
but there is a long table for twenty
set with coffee, decaf, and family, seated,
most wearing blue Happy Birthday tiaras
and purple Happy Birthday glitter hats.
A few have sunglasses, the party favor
since the poster says my stepfather
at eighty is still cool.
Among the group are several survivors
of cancer, heart disease, a gunshot.
Everyone is recognizable, though many
have not seen each other in ten years.
The buffet makes no effort
to be more than edible, little round
pancakes, little round waffles,
thick, sticky fruit sauce, square scrapple
with creamed chipped beef, plain
bagels cut into pieces.
A lonely man makes omelets to order
for six or seven people standing
in a matrix according to some
predetermined formula.
The person with the cake arrives late
(she put the wrong information – Victory Lane –
into her GPS and ended up grousing
obscenities by a school in a nearby town)
and the diner staff scrounge up a baggie
with three birthday candles and a lighter.
The birthday boy looks jazzy in sunglasses
and purple glitter hat and requests
a saxophone, of which there are none
to be had. The requisite song is sung.
Bottles of wine and gift cards are perused,
cake is sliced and eaten, leaving abstract
icing images of pink and brown on the
saucers. After fifty or so hugs goodbye,
probably also according to a predetermined
theory, guests seep out to the parking lot.
A few who like long goodbyes linger.
No one talks about next time.