His spoon rises sparking
at my near peripheral.
Dessert: dainty custard,
vanilla, whip-
creamed & covered
in cookie crumbles.
He doesn’t see the flames as I do,
attuned to the accidental.
Each blaze passes bristly lips,
snuffs.
How does fire taste?
I glance down at the centerpiece candle.
It looks delicious,
candied.
At my side, the convex mirror
streaks, a willow-o’-wisp.
I’m a fool to believe in dragon kisses,
though I muse for hours
on scorched flavor
the stranger to my right
enjoys without awareness
like oils
from a baker’s fingers in the pie.