AN ODE TO THE FALLEN FLAMIN’ HOT CHEETO

Oh, my dear Flamin’ Hot Cheeto,

what we once could have been 

but now, never could be. 

You have fallen to depths beyond my reach,

the baby’s asleep on my chest

and I fear extending my arm 

would startle the snooze, 

so, my dear Flamin’ Hot Cheeto,

resting on the carpet floor, 

we shall not meet.

We cannot meet.

We will not meet.

I will never taste your crunchy,

chemically enhanced, toxic goodness,

but perhaps another time,

when the baby is preoccupied 

with Activity Fox or ransacking the bookcase,

a chance for us to rekindle the flame will arise,

however, by then the moment will have passed,

you will be stale like a stick of Styrofoam 

and I will throw you away,

leading us to,

what I’m afraid to say,

will be the end of our story.

But I will never forget you,

my dear Flamin’ Hot Cheeto,

resting on the carpet floor.



My name is Blake Nail and I write from Streetsboro, OH where I live with my wife, son and pesky feline. I have short stories published with Ahoy Comics and currently write for Mockingbird. You can find more of my work at www.blakenail.com

Categories: Poetry

Daily Drunk

Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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