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.