than the Mad Hatter. And the March
Hare points me to my unbirthday. So,
I say “if I’m not birthed on this earth” What
am I?  A cup of flavored hot water

called tea? A sweet mixture of flour and sugar
that's baked? Call me a cake with icing! I don't like vanishing
from a bite or a swallow.  I can whistle as a teapot
without making myself hot. And I can dish it out

without them calling me dessert. A squirt or
a lick? My colors bleed on a napkin? Crumbs that fall
on their laps? Or a hatpin that holds yellow hair? Ask
the March Hare. I'll age as wine shining down

the holes I've fallen in. Growing taller than
this town I’m in.