Sunday, June 5, 2011


I CAN’T RESIST a maple bar.

With grease that clings more ardently
to my lips and mouth and throat
than last Saturday’s cigar;
And a sugar-high hangover
that commits Bourbon or rye
to mere child’s play.

Wrapped in stained wax paper,
slipped inside a streaked brown bag;
Consumed while driving,
with one in the break room,
one in the top drawer,
and willing suppliers on oft-frequented corners.

Two a day, minimum,
maybe three.
Perhaps more.
Who counts?

WHEN LUCID, I recall:
Thirty-five cents once bought a hit,
now it’s a buck and a quarter
though cheaper by the dozen.

- my teeth prompt envious glances from local derelicts
huddled in doorways -
as does my doctor,
and my tailor.
Though I don’t know they know,
or if they know, how they know.

An off-handed sweep brushes icing off my Chinos.
A private rinse in the public fountain down the hall:
Careful, always careful, to cloister, to hide.

Innards in knots at times,
wind has been breached in meetings I’ve chaired –
once emptying a small room of colleagues.

But my work is never affected.

NOW, what was step two?

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press


  1. TW: And they taste better when you sneek it!

  2. THO: That is PRICELESS! I'm going to copy and paste it into an email to my dad. He doesn't like "anything sweet". (But you should watch him with a box of See's Candy or a homemade cookie!)

  3. I've been maple bar clean and maple bar sober for four and a half to five years now.

    Truth be told, this was 'spozed to be a metaphor about those who listen to too much talk radio or watch too much 24-hour news.