Our Mom & Dad were

oven and machine,

I’m sure they loved us all

and we were a factoryful.

I was one of many

and yet no two of us

were exactly alike

flakes being flakes

Made to be eaten

in a bowl of milk

while struggling to keep

our uniqueness and crunch.

I was in a cardboard box

for a month or so

and got to know 

hundreds of my kin. 

Just then the big pour

sent me and my buddies

down to the bowl before

a torrent of milk drenched us.

And within minutes

some grumpy kid had me

and my friends heading down 

the famous Alimentary Canal.

We all prayed in sogginess 

to the most special one, 

the Great Flake

as we entered history.



Gene Goldfarb lives on Long Island, loves reading, writing, travel, cooking and movies (all kinds). His poetry has appeared in Black Fox, Misfit, Green Briar, Quiddity, The Daily Drunk, and elsehwere.