I have not written poetry since my college days:
I hear a crack.
It's not the Cheerios with chocolate milk
(low cholesterol omega-3s)
that are my comfort food of late.
As I advance in age, no one can tell me what to eat.
I fear a corporate mistake:
the severed body part of someone else, human, insect, or man made.
I feel no pain and find no evidence,
until, regurgitating the pablum like a fussy child,
I find a piece of bone,
an ancient relic out of Moby Dick.
A broken tooth. It stinks like rotting greens.
Opaque and deathly gray,
it's nothing but a small memento of decay.