‘Bout lost my mind when I didn’t see the usual.
Where the pies at? I asked the cute, East Indian man
Standing behind the counter.
We sold out, he said.
I didn’t know Hostess Apple Pies were so popular
Among the masses of Greenwich Village.
He knows how much I like my real fruit filling,
The preservatives and artificial flavors.
My world ain’t nothin’ but a flaky crust,
A cream-filled Twinkie.
Gotta get somethin’.
My sweet tooth is killin’ me.
What’s it going to be:
Snowballs?
Ho Ho’s?
Zingers?
Crumb Coffee Cakes?
None of this I like.
Wait, this look good:
Coconut Crunch Donut Delites.
Six in a row.
I’ll take these, I told the clerk.
Place two quarters in his hand.
Pull open the wrapper,
Took the first one out for a taste test,
And right then I knew, this was the last snack cake
That was going to take the place of my everyday routine.
Shane Allison, Florida, USA
Shane Allison has had poems published in Unlikely Stories, Velvet Mafia, New Delta Review, Mississippi Review, Heroin Love Songs and Zygote in My Coffee.
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