Poetry · Writing

Frosted Flakes

I’ll never stop

cutting these holes and creating a new tunnel.

To live with the old

is to live in a shadow-

I think it was on a box of cereal or something.

The silver spoon banks the hum from the kitchen light

and burns a hole through the wall.

Panic- yes- mom is gonna kill me.

 

She hasn’t lived here in ages though,

and the one you want is out hiking,

you’re alone-

looking through a hole that was already there

and a bowl of cereal has been out for ten minutes-

it’s soggy.

Work is late- late for work

can’t stop staring at the hole in the wall

 

the next morning will come-

she’ll still be gone

the hole will still be there

and the cereal will still be soggy.

 

One thought on “Frosted Flakes

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