Glossy Finish

The cake was a yellow, frosted square

with plastic dinosaurs stuck in the wax.

I look at the picture and try to go there,

to the room where the sunlight fell through the cracks.

But the air in my head is empty and dry;

I can’t smell the sugar or hear the loud song.

I’m staring at four-by-six inches of lie,

wondering where the real version went wrong.

The Polaroid border is turning to bone,

a chemical yellow that eats at the edges.

I am holding a moment I don’t even own,

kept like a secret behind paper hedges.