Its place in the kitchen
Is not one of dispute.
It has the appeal of Olympus and the altitude of Everest;
It is the right place, in terms of logistics.
Housing both pastries and satires alike,
Behind a glass dome,
Allowing for premium reflection;
Allowing for premium confection;
Although there is neither smoke or mirrors involved.
Buttercream icing slowly stagnates but still it shines under the guise of
This crystal ball;
That does so much more then foresee fortunes.
-Also the lighting is better here than any room in which a seance occurs.
From the cake stand, the alter on which the desserts are placed with
Endearment and reverence, and tightly closed hands.
Sloppily made danishes and pies ooze fruit,
Bleed blue, red and rhubarb blood as if the baker had gone mad and attempted murder,
Unsuccessfully of course.
However these glossy imperfections were done with precision,
With the cake stand, and it’s needs firmly in mind.
A crest of leaves carved into the crystal base,
A coat of arms;
By the steady handed manufacturer, who obviously had spent years and years playing in the fields of sugarcane,
Tasting it, then figuring out a way to display this taste.
Or by an android born into an uncanny valley, populated with only pistons and discarded hard-drives.
Whoever the creator,
The destination of the cake stand was to be:
On counter-tops made of granite,
And counter-tops made of glass,
And whose purpose was:
To laminate these recipes within the third dimension.
To entice families and demons, during both night and day.
These embellishments give the base a tranquil and solitary feel,
Like an early morning body of water, misty with haze;
Like a monastery tucked deep within the forest, on top of a mountain.
Only accessible by a staircase carved into the side of that mountain,
By both monks and by dynamite;
Ringing bells that every tree can hear every evening
Fallen or not.
Buried or not.
It is not air tight, although it may appear to be.
It would be a poor helmet for any space explorer, or scuba diver.
It could potentially be hospitable for hungry insects,
But only until the sweet desserts ran dry,
No actual rivers run through here.
In this way it is a Venus fly trap, accessible and enticing to wandering insects at first;
Drawn in by exotic nectar;
Drawn in by stoic dancers;
Followed by a sudden lack of oxygen and the closing of so many eyes.
So many eyes…
It is perhaps best suited to dress up concoctions curated in the kitchen,
Able to display them better than any silver platter could ever dream of,
Better than any marble bust.
It is a temporary agreement until
Vanilla knives come and cut pieces
Of the vanilla cake and place them
On vanilla plates.
By vanilla hands
This is where the cake stand becomes
yet still unable to display milkshakes.