cakewalk, october 1983

numbered cardboard squares
duct-taped to the grayish utility carpet of my elementary school
arranged in a large wobbly circle,
one through twenty.
i put my "admit one" ticket into a coffee can
with a slot cut through its plastic top
and stand shyly on a cardboard number.
someone puts the needle down on the turntable
randomly in the middle of a song
from billy joel's "an innocent man" album
and we are startled into forward movement
to the next square, counter-clockwise.
i watch my shoes and walk large and slow
careful to secure my position firmly on a number
with each giant step.
i am glad to feel my mother watching me
her timid almost-six-year-old.
someone scratches needle from the vinyl and
i freeze on number ten.
when someone calls number ten, i'm red and bashful.
my embarrassment dissolves, though, when i realize
that i get to pick a whole cake
from all those cakes on that table
to take home
all for myself.