My stash of dark chocolate
is in the pantry
between the applesauce I bought for the child
(wrong flavor, but kept anyway)
and a little jar of instant coffee
(in case of emergency, break glass).
behind the candy canes
(ghosts of a Christmas past)
and the marshmallows
(big ones like I used to roast before everything burned).
I learned from my Mama to make something
out of a half pound of nothing and a can of mushroom soup.
Lord, that woman could Shake and Bake!
I was years gone into on my own before I could face
another tuna casserole.
Now, my tuna is stacked neatly can on can
next to a sample of something or other a nice man
at the grocery store gave me for free.
Let's see; bottled water, marinade, enough hot
sauce to give a full city block the trots . . .
baking powder, flour . . .
got chocolate chips,
but I don't bake anymore.
I just settle for one of those rice cakes
(every flavor known to man)
that I tell myself are just as good
as bread (they taste like a dead man's hand).
I've got the celiac, you know,
and it's an unbuttered bitch biscuit,
but I can still suck/lick
black olives from my fingertips
or slip into my chocolate stash for a bite or ten,
and as God is my witness,
I will never be hungry again.
A Rhapsody attempt for Kerry's challenge at Real Toads. I don't have to tell anyone that those last lines are from Gone with the Wind, do I? Didn't think so.