(Poem 219 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Is there anything more disappointing
than a full bag of stale corn chips?
The perfectly plump air-filled sack
promises a crisp, crackly, salty snack,
and the satisfying rip that breaks the
seal rewards the hungry with the
enticing aroma of oil-toasted corn.
The perfect chip is chosen for shape
and size, uniformity of potential crunch,
evenly distributed inherent saltiness,
and all it takes is one bite to experience
the soul-crushing softness of flaccidity.
@Home Studio on 8/18/24 @ 10:33pm – 219th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Stale Chips photos to accompany my poem:
rebekahjmarshall 