Twinky Elegy

The edible gold bar
for the modern age,
the poorest mound
of porous paunch
to ever claim it was
a cake, truck driver’s
two a.m. consolation,
and packaged magic
in a kid’s lunchbox:
gone. Departed is
a scent too humble
to sincerely snub,
the whisper-tumble
of humdrum crumbs
with every nibble,
and that sweet yield:
white waxy glops,
the lowliest cream
of the chemical crop.
Our most beloved
grub is dead, and
whether burnt black
by cruel hellfire or
swallowed in soft
clouds above us,
let us bow our heads
in remembrance for
this latest of life’s
forgotten flavors.

— Anna Kelley

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