Preservatives and Time

The plastic wrapper is a struggle to tear.

Inside, the orange squares are too bright,

a color that doesn't exist in the woods

or anywhere that things actually grow.

I remember the salt being a kind of magic,

the peanut butter center a thick, rich reward.

But today it tastes like the back of a van,

like a warehouse floor or a cardboard box

left out in the humidity of a long July.

I look at my hand when the packet is gone.

The orange dust is settled deep in the lines

of my palm, marking me like a witness

who finally saw through the trick.