I forgot about the Honey Nut Cheerios
I left on the counter in the kitchen.
Brought it to my room after my coffee,
grains soggy, milk sweet. Tried eating it
anyway but fell apart in sugary disintegration.
So I gave up. That’s usually what happens–
a few bites and that’s enough. I let it sit,
let it warm in the morning’s cool, gradual rise
to afternoon heat thinking about the satisfying
crunch it should give me, how I could have clamored
for seconds. I caress the silver spoon in deep
to slow splash and clank. This is what it becomes:
a pool of not-good-enough and I can’t will myself
to lift the ceramic altar to my lips to drink. I stare
at bottomless milk and know I live somewhere drowning
in this disappointment treading out to some delicious
shore somewhere only I know how to live, but here’s
this stale frothy white, stagnant in my bowl,
and me hovering lamenting stressing
over something fixable.
(originally published in The Remembered Arts Journal, Winter 2017)