The Cereal Box...

The kitchen, yellow and red,
with a breakfast nook

and small corner hutch
painted blue with vegetable decals;
our black and copper dachshund,
Frankie, holing-up

under a Tappan gas stove,

chewing on a bone,

daring us to pull him out.

In the back yard, a Victory Garden,
and when the family drove

in the 1940 Pontiac

to downtown Glendale for dinner,
the restaurant--Robin Hood--

had a smokey bar,

where my parents had one drink
while Scott and I took turns

holding a pretend rifle,

then shooting a light beam
at a small, pacing “Jap soldier.”
Do I set the scene?

I was then seven,

now seventy-seven
with everyone gone, of course,
Mother and Father, Aunt, Uncle,
and Cousin. My brother survives.

I can’t remember the cereal’s name,
but it was something sweet and crunchy,
Pep, or yes, Krumbles, that’s it!

After school one day at RD White--
lingering playground sounds--
I got off the bus,
with one thing in mind,
ran mostly home, changed
from the school-plaid dress
into jeans
while my sweet Mother was reading,
and found the box up high.

Pulling the Krumbles out
hand over fist,
then shoveling them
into my mouth made me feel
like a successful little thief…
something that would haunt me later.

Imagine my surprise, when
I began to chew that first mouthful!
Making the ugly face,
I spit it out in the sink,
then looked down, and
saw that battlefield of black ants
struggling to survive.
Into the garbage can outside--all!

It was on that day in 1945
just before the war ended,
that I discovered firsthand
how ants under attack
secrete formic acid for defense.
Later on, Scott become a chemist,
while I fell into poetry
how unwittingly I'll never know.

They say what
we eat defines us,
but I think it is
what we remember,
like early stolen kisses
and repeating sounds
--annoying at times--
but always there
in our mind, echoing
as if down a long hall.

4.3.10 Kay Weeks