Sometimes, still,
though not intentionally,
I eat unhealthy food
just to have a great memory.
See,
there is morning therapy —
sometimes a breath breath of magic —
in the bottom of the bowl
of Cap'n Crunch or Apple Jacks
I treat myself to
about once a year.
The cashier passes no judgment
as she scans the box through the register,
though I'm still prepared
with the unnecessary lie
that the cereal
is for my nephew
who is staying over.
And whatever shame I feel
about even coming up with that lie
is remediated by
the milk-pouring,
the spoon-lifting,
the chewing,
the staring at the encouraging
cartoon character
on the front of the box.
And the memories of a happier,
simpler,
no-pants-until-noon
childhood.
'Leprechaun,
you get where I'm coming from,
don't you?'