Toppings

There's something I like about the toppings bar.
At a glance, one can see.
The kiwi wallow in the juices of their own envy
(strawberry is more popular, but only slightly).
Blueberries, the promise of summer.
The mochi's powdered face belies its simple taste.
Meanwhile, the cheesecake bites gradually melt
into one sticky cheesecake mess, the cranky child
of the bunch. The peaches are lonely.
It bothers me when the candied cherries impose on
the lesser fruits. The shy pineapple, of pale complexion,
finds itself drenched in flamboyant red.
Imagine the self-esteem issues of the pineapple.
I make it my job to ensure that each topping remains
in its place, weeding out any would-be crossovers.
I make sure that each bin is filled to the
golden rectangle amount, the one that looks just right
and makes someone who,
when they glance over, think, I appreciate this
sterile aesthetic, this beauty
that comes from categorizing a thing by its essence -
its color, its texture, its taste - I see the choices,
and I will make mine, scoop it up
with a spoon, and carry it with me.