The radio stopped halfway through auld lang syne

There are so very
            few of us left, just
      Don, Elice, and the
Baker who will

           not tell us his name, just
     gestures with rolling
pins, never speaking, the

           baker who made the cake that
     we ate when we were last
together, it was a hot chocolate

           matcha marble cake, we took it
     on the end of our forks and
toasted the uncertain future, raising

           cake high into the air, where already
     the first light of the distant explosion
broke across the horizon like

a searing sawn.