BIRTHDAY PARTY BLUFFS

you're always pointing me
in all directions,
spinning me around,
and blind-folding me.

you present me with
some empty hat and
ask me what's in it.

i can't feel anything anymore.
isn't there an ass somewhere
to pin this tail on?


we pass around the present
and it gets smaller
with each pair of hands.

the torn wrapping paper
can't help but linger
dejectedly among us.

once your gifts are husked,
undressed, and revealed:
there's never enough
of value to go around.


i'm so exhausted from
passing hot potatoes
around this anxious circle.

but when the music stops,
when the candles go out,
when another chair is
dragged out from under us..

who will call your bluff?

©Copyright 2004 Sheila Cook.