An alternative to vanilla after Rocky Road is done

The proposition I would present to you is this:
There is space for a wide-open skylight,
for the cross-beams of light to pattern the architecture of disappointment,
and in that space of floating, smoke-like air,
the substance of which is like the felt tip of a pen,
I am at rest.
Let me argue for more space–
my model is the one out of seven orphans
crammed Dickens-like into a long, wide bed: “Roll Over.”

There’s a critical mass of dreams,
and an unknown ceiling on cards you can hold,
as if, shuffling, some will inevitably drop in accord
with a hidden principle of entropy.
Sometimes a choice is a choice is a choice is a choice–
sometimes the cake is spoiling.