one of those day-old types,
two days old by now.
Half-mawed, decrepit muffin,
weathered from the journey
home.
I do not know your flavor muffin;
all the other ones were red.
I just know of the colored
white speckles of sugar
on your head
and chunks of something
floating through your insides.
I know of the crispy rim,
broken, disheveled, and crusty.
I don't know how you survived
the car ride, but muffin you're my
cross to bear.
Oh cruel misfortune,
thy name
is muffin, thy
pastry rich center
be thy sword
with which thou' wouldst
rend me in twain
were I not to shove
thee twixt my teeth.
Turns out:
pineapple up-side-down
muffin.
Not bad.
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