Tiger's Grin

The cornflakes swam, flat yellow, stale.

I couldn't eat. I turned the box around.

The tiny numbers, pale

against the brown, on solid ground

of facts. Calories. Fat. A whole list.

Then the tiger. Cartoon, green-eyed, wide.

His smile, a painted fist

of false good cheer, nothing to hide.

He didn't know the percentages,

or what the numbers meant. Just

that bright, fixed grin, no fences

or fear of turning to dust.

He wanted me to feel.

I stared into his face.

A plastic, empty, perfect deal.

Trapped in that cardboard space.