Forty-Three and the Fridge

Nobody called until six. I'd been

watching the ceiling fan rotate—one wobble

per revolution, every spin

the same flaw. I was fine. The trouble

was the fridge. I opened it for a beer

and found last year's slice, still wrapped in foil,

the fork still planted, frosting the same clear

blue from the same bakery. The coil

of wax on the cardboard circle, soft still

when I pressed it with my thumb. I stood

there holding the door open past the chill

becoming cold. Forty-three. I understood

the phone would ring. It rang at six.

I said I was fine. I was mostly.