It was a Thursday,
and I heard from a coworker
there was a cafe in Journalism.
I walked there,
and tried to be charming
while I took too long to order.
The cashier wasn't smiling.
So I shoved my hand in my wallet
and hurriedly ordered the danish.
I had to pee,
but it simply is nasty to take danish
into the public bathroom.
So I planted myself
on a piece of office furniture
and ate there with the sophomores.
While they bantered,
about hip hop politics
and did not eat cherry danish.
I tried to eat it daintiy
and not to soil my book
or low cut mauve sweater.
But with each bite
the flakes drifted and tore away
from each other, into the folds of my skirt.
I knew the girl
sitting catacorner from me
must have been stifling a laugh.
As this shaggy headed
nearly thirty nibbled
pathetically at the crumbling pastry.
And she must have
"rotfl[h]ao" when I stood up
and danish flew off me like dandelion fluff.