More cake than cobbler. Some call it slump. Some betty.
But it’s forever August in my Memory’s kitchen:
where peaches, butter, and brown sugar puddle.
Sweetness something he too expected
in his clumsy reach for what was never offered.
Some call three decades too late. Too faded.
As if trauma grows stale for survivors.
If not your vote, he would have your silence.
Every recipe yields in the end.